


Soft Belly - Sharp Claws

by Salios



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond has some competition and I'm only mildly sorry, Bond is a pain in the ass as always, Cuddles, Fairly mild allusion to torture, Fluff, Go look up the Armadillo Girdled Lizard. Do it., Hildy made me do it, M/M, No actual noncon, Overlord allusions because of reasons, Q is a chinchilla and a smartass, Romance, Slash, Snark, The poor poor interns, Threat of noncon, animal - Freeform, anthro series, chinchilla, creature - Freeform, m/m - Freeform, ouroboros, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salios/pseuds/Salios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q needs to somehow navigate MI6 politics, explosives, the toxic-looking sludge growing in the Q-branch coffee pot, and the ever childish advances of one James Bond. Now if only there were a way to make Bond keep his tail to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't entirely know where I'm going with this. Consider it a dumping ground for such ideas. Q is a Chinchilla, Bond is a reptile, it's cute, and somehow works.  
> Expect snark and a water pistol fairly often.
> 
> Obviously (you should know this with me having to tell you) this is a fanpiece and therefore not used for monetary gain.  
> Guys interested in guys, espionage, anthro-type verse, you know.

The Quartermaster of MI6 wasn’t at all what he’d been expected to be. Rather than keeping to the old way of things or a withered husk of a man, the Quartermaster of MI6 was instead young, intelligent, snarky, and…cute. The Quartermasters of the past had been mostly canines, with a few interspersed felines and birds. But this Quartermaster was the first of his kind. Long before he became Quartermaster, Q for short, he had been an unassuming Research and Development intern by the name of Falk D. Weaver.

He was the young man who hid in his corner cubicle; first into the office each morning, and the last to leave each night. He was quiet but polite, his productivity the highest in his branch. At first he worked on chemical compounds in pharmaceuticals, aiming to improve antibiotics and create anti-venoms when needed. His work was challenging and fast-paced and he had no complaints about his life. His coworkers had nothing bad to say about him, only that no one really knew Falk, that he was too quiet, too shy. For his work in creating an adaptive antibiotic Falk was offered a promotion, which he declined. Falk was content in his corner with his baubles and skeins of wire and cabling. He was happy with the anonymity in which he lived and, while happy to be useful, he wasn’t interested in being the center of attention. As far as Falk was concerned someone like him didn’t want or need prestige; leave such things to canines and catamounts, to the various fowls with their bright plumage always seeking attention. But someone like him was too plain, too ordinary, and content with being just that. So he kept up the good work and continued to settle into his cubicle, which was really beginning to look more like a nest than a mass produced office square. 

In the ten years that Falk had been employed at MI6, from the tender age of nineteen after being caught with his trousers around his ankles, so to speak, Falk had made many allies. His work in both computer sciences and robotics, and biochemical engineering had his name at the top of a very prestigious list, even if he had no interest in climbing the corporate ladder. His superiors knew who to keep an eye on, and who could, and would, rise to the occasion when called.

And so, when Raoul Silva attacked MI6 headquarters and rendered both the current Quartermaster and his second incapable of completing their duties, Falk rose to the task. 

 

* * *

 

The blast that had taken out the upper levels of MI6 had been intended to cause far more damage, and a much higher kill count. But Falk, having already been at his desk for several hours, was able to deflect the majority of the destruction. Because of his swift actions, dozens of lives had been saved. The list of living versus dead should have been enough to convince the young man he’d made the right decision, but for the list of deceased he tortured himself. If only he had been faster, smarter, no one would have had to die. But that was for later, for now he had to organize his people. **His** people. The techs, the researchers: the boffins of MI6. And for all the mutterings he had heard behind his back with each award, for each word of praise, now, as he stood before his peers the jeering comments and disdainful looks were absent; replaced with respect and hope. 

Not one MI6 employee complained that not a loyal canine, sly feline, or captivating fowl lead them. Not a single person spoke a word against him. Because for all the loyalty and selflessness of a canine, their command crumbled before his resolve, the quick decisiveness of a catamount rendered itself slow and weak in the face of his wit and intelligence, and every bright feather and articulate speech a fowl could muster meant nothing to the stony determination he exuded as he kept them alive. Falk did more than help his people survive; they thrived under his rule. 

The rule of a meek chinchilla.

 

* * *

His mistake with Silva’s laptop had been excused as a rookie mistake. Falk hadn't been able to forgive himelf though, and he doubted he would ever forget how much damage his pride had caused. Apparently letting a psychopathic, revenge-oriented ex-double-oh screw with their internal systems and nearly cause the death of the head of MI6 wasn’t all that bad (considering that M had managed to survive the destruction of Skyfall manor in Silva’s last assault). Which, really, should have been an indication to Falk concerning just how screwed he would be if he stayed in this position. Oppositely, he rather liked the Quartermaster’s office (once it had been rebuilt, of course). And the free reign to build and develop and code to his heart’s content was worth the horribly hectic hours, panicked texts at any given time of day, and the unending petulance from his field agents. 

Yes, **his** agents; he may have been a Chinchilla, but that didn’t at all mean that Q, Falk, _whatever_ , was willing to let someone else take chances with their lives. They were his annoying pests and to hell with anyone who tried to take them away. Well…Falk was almost willing to part with one of his pests; the biggest, meanest, cleverest of them. And by that, obviously, he meant James Bond. 

Bond was one of the few Armadillo Girdled Lizards ever found in England. There was some speculation over his lineage, but so far no one had been brave enough (re: suicidal) to confront him about it. The man was smooth and sharp all at once. Unlike many he was able to keep his reptilian characteristics in check. Other than scaled ridges instead of ear shells, some scaling on his hands, neck, and if the gossip was to be believed, underbelly, the only indication of Bond’s species was the long, sharply plated tail that swept along behind him. Falk had seen his fair share of interns stare after that tail, a good number whispering about the kind of leverage Bond must have because of it. Falk made a habit of tweaking those interns’ consoles and mobiles to play only the most annoying of sounds at odd intervals. Within a few hours he would relent and return the devices to their original settings, if only for his own sanity. 

Bond…was a problem. He was also a major distraction for even the most disciplined of Q-branch. More than once Falk had been forced to threaten the double-oh with a squirt gun filled with ice water to get the reptile to leave his bunker. The agent, after Falk had finally given over and shot a stream of icy water into the man’s face, would huff, twitch his flaring tail and neck plates, and leave with an expression that promised retribution. Even months later, Falk still checked every corner he turned, every seat he took, and every bathroom stall. Field agents were known for their viciousness in revenge, and they were fluffy kittens in comparison to the double-oh section. 

But back to Falk’s current problem (again): Bond. 

The insufferable reptile had seated himself on the edge of Falk’s desk and refused to move. Falk had all but given up on being productive for the day, because every time he thought he’d found a comfortable spot out of reach of Bond’s tail in which to type or check paperwork, the other man would disprove the new Q’s false sense of security by prodding him in the ribs, the calf, and in one instance that had him reaching for the chilled water pistol, Falk’s tail. The younger man had promptly choked on his instinctive squeak and instead bared his teeth at the reptile, hissing. 

Bond had actually been stunned. His pale, reptilian eyes had shrunken to icy slits, tail becoming rigid behind him. Chinchillas weren’t aggressive mammals, quite the opposite, but there was something about Bond that made the head of Q-branch’s ears flutter and his fingers begin to grow claws.

Git. 

“Double-Oh-Seven, in the event that you have outgrown the tools supplied to you by Q-branch I invite you to do that again. Oppositely, if you have any living brain cells in that hollow _wedge_ you call a head, I suggest you find somewhere else to be and to never again **_touch my tail._** ” Falk’s voice was low and while he wasn’t quite snarling he knew that his human appearance was falling away. He felt the sharp tips of his teeth, having grown a fair bit recently as he’d been too busy to properly blunt them, against his tongue as he spoke. His claws, wickedly sharp and thin, pressed into the leather desk cover on either side of his laptop. Falk suspected that the black of his fur was even beginning to show around his temples and jaw like he was wont to do when upset. 

He half expected Bond to press further and was surprised when the Ouroboros stood from the Quartermaster’s desk and stepped back, palms up and away. They eyed each other for a moment, Falk’s breath coming quickly, tail quivering with suppressed rage, Bond’s chest rising a slight bit quicker than before. Finally Bond bent his head down and angled to the side. The gesture was submissive, unprecedented for Bond, and the angle kept his eyes in contact with Falk’s.

“My mistake, I apologize, Q.” It was said without sarcasm, low and smooth. Bond’s eyes didn’t flicker, his tail remained stationary, and the exposed plating on his neck didn’t even change colour. He wasn’t lying, not as far as Falk could tell.

Falk stood from his chair, back straight, fingers once again long and human. “Yes, well, see that it never happens again. I don’t know how your species does things, Double-Oh-Seven, but in my genus what you did is incredibly insulting.” Bond’s eyes flickered now, the pupil widening before shrinking back down to slits of black amongst a sea of arctic blue. He was surprised, again.

“Again, Quartermaster, I apologize. It will not happen again.” The agent slowly lowered his hands to his sides, never looking away from his Quartermaster’s green gaze. 

Falk nodded, jaw set, “was there something you wanted concerning work, or were you merely looking for _entertainment_?” 

“A bit of both, I suppose. One of your minions said you’d been working on something new for us double-ohs, I was hoping to provide myself for testing.” Again Bond's voice didn’t waver, though the length of his tail wrapped around his left shin. 

“Oh, that, well it isn’t yet ready for testing. Nor is it nearly ready enough for my _subordinates_ ,” he narrowed his eyes, emphasising the correct terminology, “to be chatting about. If and when the prototype comes to a stage where testing is required, Double-Oh-Seven, and I am in need of thorough durability data, I will _of course_ come to you.” Bond’s lips quirked up at the snark. “Until then, please occupy yourself with something more pedestrian; running, shooting, seducing another fowl from accounting maybe?” Bond’s mouth blossomed into a full grin at the not so subtle shot at his inability to separate work and play, and really it shouldn’t of made Falk’s ears flush so hotly, but it did. 

“I’ll make sure to take your advice to heart, Quartermaster. Thank you for your time.” With that and a sly wink, Bond spun on the toe of one, no doubt horridly expensive shoe, and sauntered ( _sauntered!_ ) from the office.

It wasn’t until the breathless silence outside had passed into excited chatter did Falk flop back down into his chair and exhale in a loud huff. His ears hung limply and his tail curled around one thigh. Really, that man would certainly be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pie and water pistols. I did promise.

“Q,” the single letter that made up his name really shouldn’t be so intimidating, really. But somehow, and the chinchilla really didn’t want to know how, M had perfected her monotone intimidation and eyebrow raise pairing so flawlessly that he could feel his tail duck between his legs and ears flattened to his head. Honestly. He shuffled forward through the door, allowing the bullet-proof, sound-proof monstrosity to close after him with a barely heard ‘click’. He was trapped now, truly, and he had to make due.

“You wanted to speak with me, M?” The head of MI6 eyed him for half a second before she gestured to the two leather chairs before her desk, a simple piece of furniture made of chrome and frosted glass. Falk again shuffled forward until he could sit, slowly, onto the edge of one cushion. He’d chosen the left chair. His ears remained flat and his tail had attempted to slide up the back of his cardigan. For a rodent Falk wasn’t exactly submissive, he was too snarky and bristly to truly be what his species demanded, but how M watched him, pale eyed sharp, made him feel every bit the prey he was. Foxes weren’t the largest predator he dealt with daily, not even slightly, but very few people have ever intimidated him like M did. And she hadn’t even said more than his designation. 

“Yes,” she didn’t continue and Falk suddenly felt as though he was missing something important. 

“Ah...if I may be so bold...why?” He winced at the slight squeak in his voice. 

M’s hands folded on top of the desk, “I’ve gotten reports that Bond has taken to spending his free time in Q-branch. I want to know why.” 

Falk blinked, slightly thrown. The double-oh, for as long as the chinchilla had been working directly in Q-branch and not in R&D, had  been a constant, if annoying, presence. The new Quartermaster had taken it as a means to alleviate boredom rather than anything productive. But if M’s simple sounding request was what he thought, than apparently having a field agent with a license to kill hanging about wasn’t supposed to be normal. 

“Ah, I hadn’t realized it was a problem, Sir.” The dark-haired man swallowed, mind whirring, “As far as I know he isn’t actively disrupting our schedules and hasn’t commandeered any of my resources, minus an intern here or there. I...I suppose my inexperience is to blame for not noticing his presence as a problem, I apologize. In the future I will ensure that he spend his off-time elsewhere, I – “ 

“You will not.” He blinked, ears flicking up and then back down. 

“Ah...Sir?” 

“Quartermaster, in all the years that I have known Double-Oh-Seven I have never seen him so...” She paused for a moment, considering. “So... _tame_ ,” Falk blinked, tame wasn’t an adjective he would have ever applied to the double-oh. “He’s always been blowing up this, or seducing that, or terrorizing this department. But never before has he spent so much time in one place without some great fallout.” 

“So should I assume that something is coming then?” 

“Heavens no! Don’t invite trouble where the is none, child!” The chastising look and matching tone were laced with amused fondness. “I am not complaining; Double-Oh-Seven being occupied in such a way as this means less paperwork and fewer counselling sessions for our support staff. As you well know, Bond more than enjoys stirring the pot, as it were. No, what I want from you is for you to, subtly, find out _why_ Double-Oh-Seven is so enamoured with Q-branch.”

“Yes Sir,” that was all Falk said because, really, what else did one say to the second most powerful woman in Britain?

 

* * *

 

 After the horribly awkward meeting in M’s office the newest Quartermaster escaped to the cafeteria. Moneypenny called after him to save her a seat and a slice of pie. He did, raspberry, and took a seat by the window overlooking the Thames. As a chinchilla he pointedly avoided water; the moisture that inevitably got trapped in his fur was murder and worth more pain and anti-biotic use than was strictly necessary. Fur rot was not fun in the least. But he enjoyed watching the water regardless and assumed, correctly, that Moneypenny would. Falk was so mesmerized by the thoughts in his head that he didn’t notice another body at the table until something cool and firm prodded his side. Falk yelped and flailed one hand out, nearly knocking over his still piping hot tea. 

A cool hand caught his and held it, the skin slightly rough. Ears again pinned back, Falk stared over at Bond. The reptile was grinning lazily back at him, baring a slim line of white teeth amongst the pale pink of his lips. His grip on Falk’s hand was gentle but firm. Pale blue eyes twinkled with mirth and Falk felt a flush climb across his nose and cheeks. He tugged weakly and Bond released the younger man’s hand, returning his own to the table where it curled around a steaming cup of coffee. Falk’s tail twitched against his back, thumping once or twice in irritation. Bond’s tail curled lazily in the space between them, writhing back and forth leisurely. The double-oh was the picture of contented amusement. 

Falk huffed and raised his hand, the same one that Bond had caught, and prodded the agent in the shoulder with his index finger. Bond’s pale brows twitched upward, his grin widening slightly, but otherwise didn’t move. It honestly felt as though he’d prodded concrete, the agent’s upper bicep was so firm. He grimaced and pulled his hand back only to have it caught again by Bond. His ears twitched and green eyes narrowed but Falk remained still, waiting. Bond, holding theQuartermaster’s right hand in his left, gently turned it over until the soft flesh of Falk’s palm faced up. The double-oh then shifted in his seat, tail swinging for balance, until he properly faced the brunette. 

He released his coffee and brought that hand to cup the other side of Falk’s palm. Bond’s eyes, which up until this point hadn’t broken contact, dropped to stare at the palm he held. Bond’s fingertips were warm, likely from the mug of coffee, and slightly calloused. Like the scratch of a well-loved wool blanket rather than sandpaper, like Falk had expected. The tip of Bond’s right index finger touched his palm by the heel of his hand and drew downwards, eliciting a shiver. He did this a few more times, up from the space between his thumb and forefinger, and across the width of his palm twice, three times. Bond hummed and repeated each motion. He only stopped when, after the third pass along the upper line crossing Falk’s palm just below the pads of his hand, Falk squeaked. He glanced up and Falk looked away, knowing that his cheeks were darkly flushed and his tail was quivering against his back, once again hiding under his cardigan. 

The double-oh cocked his head to one side and smiled slowly. “You have an interesting palm, Quartermaster.” 

The boffin jumped at the soft tone and glanced back, meeting Bond’s eyes for half a second before glancing back down to where the other man cradled his hand; tan, calloused skin against long, pale digits. “I sincerely doubt that, Double-Oh-Seven.” 

Instead of being offended Bond merely chuckled and pointed down at the captive hand, “would you like to know what I’m looking at? 

“No thank you,” he huffed, having quite enough of the agent’s disregard for personal space. “If I could have my hand back please,” to Falk’s surprise Bond gently released his palm and folded his fingers back around his mug, still watching. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Double-Oh-Seven?” 

“Hmm, not at present, no, I had hoped that the boffin pen would have something to entertain me today; I was sadly disappointed.” Bond’s rough drawl sent shivers down Falk’s back and his spine, stiffened trying to hide them. “Your minions ( _subordinates_!) had nothing new for me to play with, and as the head boffin was off frolicking elsewhere,” Bond didn’t even flinch at Falk’s withering glare, “I thought to seek you out. See if maybe you had something to keep me entertained." 

“That’s _Emperor_ Boffin, to you...peasant...” Falk narrowed his eyes comically and scowled in mock-anger at the field agent who promptly burst into unrestrained laughter. Startled, and never before having heard the loud, booming noise that was Bond’s laughter, Falk squeaked again. Bond paused mid-laugh, choking slightly, and stared at the brunette for a breath. Then his grin slid wide and his eyes dropped to slits. 

“Quite a mouth on you, I think I like it, _Emperor_.” The gravel in Bond's voice had increased ten-fold, echoed by a faint hiss; likely Bond’s creature attributes taking hold. “I wonder what else – “ 

Bond was cut off by a stream of water splattering against the right side of his face. He shouted and flew to his feet, tail lashing angrily. He turned on his aggressor, fingers having shifted into long, deadly claws, teeth bared in a snarl only to get another stream of icy water to the face. He backed away and hissed, swiping at the stream. 

Eve Moneypenny cackled; a high pitched yelp that was at home with her Fennec heritage. She continued to fire streams of cold water from her pistol, which was a vibrant neon pink with darker leopard spots, until Bond was five feet back and crowded against the next table. Falk could only sit and watch, awe struck. 

Actually, that was a lie; he made sure to plaster himself against the window, well out of the way of the water, and _then_  to stared. 

Wearing a shit-eating grin Moneypenny taunted, “this boffin’s mine, Bond, go find your own,” promptly tucked away the water pistol, sat, and dug into her cooling piece of pie. 

Falk was left slack-jawed and more than a little impressed. 

Bond, not so much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers are tasty, at least these ones are.

Tucked carefully against the window, Falk eyed the double-oh with a mixture of amusement and dread. On one hand, seeing the normally smug, imperturbable reptile soaked and dishevelled in his bespoke suit was absolutely hilarious. Really, he had to remember to make copies of the security footage for later viewing. Oppositely...the blackish flush crawling up Bond’s neck was a mite bit worrying. Not to mention the retention of his claws and the edges of thick plating at his collar. Falk gulped, suddenly debating the merits of jumping out the window. It was only a what, six story fall? Easy. What were a couple of snapped femurs in exchange for avoiding the wrath of a double-oh? 

Given Bond’s repeat history for violent outbursts, Falk was more than a little surprised when the encroaching black flush, plating, and talons disappeared. They didn’t take their time reverting to human flesh, which would have been natural and wholly expected; no, Bond’s animal characteristics were there one minute and the next they had simply _melted_ back into his flesh. Had Falk not actually watched the change happen mere moments before he wouldn’t have believed that Bond had lost control, even for a moment. Which made Falk’s decision to continue his attempts to fuse with the window glass, or rather pass through it, all the more valid as the double-oh calmly walked back to his previous spot beside the Quartermaster and smoothly fold back into the uncomfortable plastic seat. 

Falk didn’t dare breathe. Or make eye contact. He’d heard that making eye contact with a predator, especially one in circumstances such as these, was a terrible idea if one valued their continuation of life. 

Moneypenny didn’t even look up from her pie, munching away with a small smile. Bond hunched over his still hot coffee, forearms caging the cup to either side, and didn’t say anything. Well then...Falk slowly, oh so slowly, stretched out one hand until he could just barely touch the edge of his cup of tea. With unsure fingers he slowly drew it towards him, mindful of the beautiful (wait, what?) predator less than two feet away. Falk bit his lower lip, worrying away at the skin. Alright, he could man up and admit that Bond was attractive; it was, after all, one more weapon in his rather impressive arsenal. Likely the double-oh had been working on his ability attract the right kind of attention since before his time at MI6. And in the years after joining he’d been given the opportunity to hone what were likely already impressive skills. So, Falk reasoned with himself, there really was no need to delve too deeply into _why_ he considered the double-oh attractive, he could just dismiss it as another hazard of his job... 

And dear _god_ was the list of reasons for his hazard pay already long. Really, he could likely paper his entire apartment if he ever felt like writing it all out. 

Falk managed to curl both hands around the warm cup and went back to staring out the window. Oh what a life he lived.

 

* * *

Falk left the office early that day; there were no pressing missions to oversee, no double-ohs raining destruction down upon unsuspecting countries, and (for once) no mountains of paperwork to tie the new Q to his desk. As such Falk stopped at the Tesco by his flat for a few groceries, he hadn’t been home long enough to warrant food to be on hand in quite some time. Laden with bags he managed to unlock his door and slip inside without dropping everything, though he would need to hold a service later for the poor soup tins he’d somehow managed to crush coming through the door.

His night was quick and after thoroughly cleaning his ears and tail he slipped into a pair of loose sleep pants and fell into bed where he burrowed under the covers. It took no time at all for sleep to come upon him. 

* * *

Falk yawned, holding one hand up to maintain the semblance of manners that had somehow gone missing in recent months. His ears hung out to either side of his head and his tail was limp behind him. A few interns wished him a good morning, to which he grunted in reply. Really, who thought to make pleasantries at such a god awful time of day? He’d seen the bloody sun rise for fucks’ sakes! 

His early night, and wasn’t Falk ever thankful for actually leaving Q-branch early enough to actually have a decent sleep, had been interrupted at half four the next morning. Apparently one of the idiot interns had locked himself in the server room and the only MI6 employee with sufficient access to clear the lock-down was, obviously, Falk. Apparently his subordinates were less afraid of him than Tanner or M, though he understood their reluctance to bother M at such an hour. He would need to rectify that. Upon reaching MI6, without his morning tea or the leisurely dust-bath he had anticipated before bed last night, a very grumbly Falk had released the intern. Though not without such a withering glare he doubted he would need to put much effort into retraining his staff. Still pouting over his too-short dust-bath that morning, he slouched into his office where he fell into his padded office chair with a sigh. 

Maybe, if he locked the door and threatened his staff with permanent assignment to Double-Oh-Seven, he could get a few more hours of uninterrupted rest. One ear twitched up, hopeful, only to sag back down. Nope, not even a slight possibility of that. The Homo Ebony chinchilla dropped his head down onto the soft leather of his desk with a sigh. Well, that’s what he attempted to do. His forehead instead impacted a hard lump, eliciting a choked squeak and a hiss. He blinked down at the gaudily wrapped package with wide green eyes, ears perked and tail straight. Still no more than a third awake, he cocked his head to the side and stared. The packaging was a glossy purple, thick and well wrapped. He squinted at it, finding no card on or around the rectangular lump. He frowned and turned to his ever present messenger bag, pulling free his secure laptop. Without moving the package he set down the machine, opened the lid, and booted up. After signing in he sent off a quick message to Danielle, his senior tech in Q-branch, and waited.

A moment later she popped her head through his open door, smiling gently. For a catamount she was unusually sweet and soft-spoken. Well, until you stepped on her tail, metaphorically. She sauntered in with stereotypical grace and stood on the other side of the desk, hip cocked. 

“What can I do for you, Q?” Her soft tone made him smile, tired as he was. 

“Morning, Danielle. Sorry to bother you, but do you know anything about this?” He gestured at the glossy package, watching her face. 

She smiled gently, understanding his lack of tact. Chinchilla were nocturnal, and aside from his regular days at MI6 the early morning wake up had no doubt thrown her boss’ internal clock off something awful. “Yes, it was waiting for delivery outside Q-branch last night, just after you left. There was a sticky-note with your name tacked to the top. Security took a look and cleared it, so no worries there. Were you expecting something?” She frowned at the minute shake of his head, ears flopping. “Odd then, but I’m curious to see what you got.” She came around to perch on the desk beside him, staring expectantly at the package. 

“Ugh, stare at it all you like, Danielle, the bloody thing won’t be doing any tricks.” Falk shuffled out of his parka, draping it over the back of his chair, and combed a hand through his unruly hair. He blinked his eyes a few times, feeling his contacts settle; wearing his glasses for extended periods of time had become painful on his ears. Working for MI6 had ensured that he didn’t have a set schedule, and as much as he liked the ability to simply remove his glasses versus finding a mirror and toting around a case and solution, contacts were more dependable for the hours he kept and the work he did. “Right then, shall I?” He pulled open a drawer to his left, fishing out a plain letter opener. He flipped the package, gently, and wedged the opener under one tab, prying loose the rectangle of scotch tape. He did this with the rest and soon the paper was neatly folded beside the package. 

The box couldn’t be more than a foot long and a half foot wide, rectangular, and plain brown cardboard. Falk tilted his head again, considering what it could be. He shrugged and pulled at the remaining tabs. Opening one end he gently shook the package until its contents fell out onto the leather cover of his desk. Danielle gasped, ducking in to hover over the package. Falk’s jaw dropped. 

In clear cellophane and fine lace rice paper accents was a package of rosehips from Fortnum & Mason. Falk stared at the luxurious red and pink baubles, ears quivering. He loved rosehips, they were his favourite food. But even at their lowest quality they weren’t a cheap snack. He couldn’t honestly remember the last time he’d enjoyed even a handful of rosehips. But a whole _bag?_ And from _Fortnum & Mason?!_ He had to control his squeaks. After a moment of staring, Danielle turned to him, eyes wide. 

“Who the bloody hell are you sleeping with, and how can I get in on this?” 

“Wh-what?! You _must_ be joking! I’m not sleeping with anyone!” Falk squeaked, hands raised to fend off what could possibly be a jealous catamount. Instead Danielle gave him a condescending ‘mhmm’ and gently picked up the bag. It was nearly two kilograms worth of his favourite treat. Falk’s ears flattened and without meaning to his hands darted out and plucked the bag from the catamount’s hands, cradling it to his chest. That earned him an annoyed ear flick and a raised brow from Danielle. “Oh shush, they’re _my_ rosehips.” 

“Well yes, but maybe I should inspect them for poisons; I would gladly place myself before you in the line of fire. Just give me one and I’ll make sure they’re fit for consumption.” Falk's ears and tail twitched. Danielle’s tail curled over the armrest of his chair. “Fine, fine, die of poison for all I care!” She stood from the corner of his desk, barely hiding a grin. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re frothing at the mouth and sucking in your last breath!” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I certainly won’t.” 

Danielle cackled as she let herself out of Falk’s office, closing the door behind her. Falk gave the door once last glare before tucking his feet up onto the chair, shoes having been discarded, and staring down at the cellophane package. One long finger drew across the label. He hadn’t mentioned his favourite treat to anyone here, not that he could remember, so how had someone known? Better yet, who would bother to send him gifts? Hell, who had the kind of money to send him rosehips from Fortnum & Mason of all places? Glancing around his office, though there was little to no chance someone could be hiding in the half dozen feet of open space to watch him, he gently pulled open the re-sealable zipper lock and inhaled. 

Falk wasn’t ashamed to admit in that moment, though later on he would deny this whole heartedly, that he moaned at bit at that first whiff of sugar and faint floral perfume. Heaven, that’s what he’d been given; a two kilogram bag of pink and red bits of heaven. He’d repay his gifter the first chance he got, but for now he intended to fully enjoy the euphoria of this prize.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd

Somehow, he really had no clue where he’d gathered the willpower from, Falk had refrained from finishing off the bag of rosehips in one go. Instead, he’d pulled out a few handfuls, resealed the bag, and tucked it away into the safe set into the floor beneath his desk. 

Falk was more than a little concerned by the lack of trouble in Q-branch; by four in the afternoon there had been no screaming or explosions. He stood and moved around his desk to the door left slightly ajar. He’d discarded his cardigan much earlier, the wool having grown too warm for comfort. His tie had quickly followed and lay crumpled somewhere in the general vicinity of the coat rack behind his desk. The first few buttons of his dress shirt were undone and the crisp white sleeves rolled to just below his elbows.

Carefully he nudged the door open further, ears twitching and swivelling back and forth. Quiet; Q-branch was never quiet. The slim man was now very worried. He padded out into the wide room, eyeing the interns and employees typing silently at their desks. A few people threw glances his way only to quickly return their eyes back to their work. Odd...Q-branch employees were curious folk. The branch consisted of mostly catamounts and fowls with a few rodents tossed in for flavour. Falk was the only chinchilla, as far as he knew, in all of MI6. His kind weren’t normally found in such cold climates as England, preferring the warm temperatures and high altitudes in South America. The cement flooring was chilly even through his socks as he padded silently through the rows of desks to Danielle’s. She sat comfortably, ankles crossed and shoulders straight, typing. She hummed under her breath, tail wagging contentedly. He paused for a moment before interrupting her, doing so with a small wave.

She pushed back from the desk and turned slightly left to face him, her smile pleasant. “Finally tore yourself away from those treats, yeah?” She laughed lightly at his protruding tongue, “yes, yes, you’re all work and no play, I understand. What brings you over this way?” She cocked her head to the side.

Falk glanced around the long room that made up Q-branch, “something’s off. It’s far too quiet in here. Did someone die and forget to tell me?” It was a remark made only half in jest.

Danielle leaned out from behind her monitor to glance around Q-branch. Falk noticed the way her tail stilled, the tuffs of hair at the points of her ears waving as she twitched them back and forth. A slow frown made its way across Danielle’s face and she flattened her palms against the desk top. She glanced back at Falk and he shrugged minutely. Danielle locked her computer and then stood, her heeled shoes bringing her just short of Falk's brow. “Curiosity never _did_ kill a cat, yeah?” The Quartermaster smirked but said nothing, merely following a few paces behind as the catamount stalked yet unseen prey. Even fewer Q-branch techs glanced up at the soft _click click_ of Danielle’s steps. Her twitching nose brought them to the back corner of Q-branch, just before the door to storage. The back corner was usually reserved for interns; keeping them away from the busiest, crucial parts of the branch and at the same time allowing them to observe.

A young man sat at one of the desks, the others empty, he glanced up as they approached only to hunker down and gaze resolutely at his computer screen. He barely even blinked. Danielle stood just behind the man’s left shoulder, arms folded under her bosom, ankles crossed. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t need to. Content to watch, Falk remained behind the computer monitor across from Danielle, a few feet from the desk. He so loved to watch her work.

“Gregory....” Falk imagined that he could hear the young man’s gulp, “would you be a dear and tell me what _exactly_ ,” the emphasis, followed by a two-breath pause, had the intern’s rounded mouse ears flattening, “is going on?”

There was another pause, in which Falk really was sure he heard the man gulp, before he answered. “Ah...nothing, nothing at all, R, we’re just busy is all.” Danielle said nothing, though she did lean forward slightly. “I-I mean, we’re working on stuff, yeah, the stuff you gave us this morning, umm...” Danielle leaned farther forward, her chin less than six inches from the quivering tips of Gregory’s ears, flush against his dirty-blonde curls. Rather than attempting to lie a third time, Gregory descended into fearful squeaking. Danielle took pity on the intern and clapped one long-fingered hand to his head between his ears. She gently rustled his curls and gave a light scratch that ceased the noise.

“Gregory, while I can’t promise I won’t be angry, I can promise not to take my anger out on you, _if_ you tell me what’s going on.” She continued to ruffle his hair, waiting for an answer.

The mouse nodded minutely under the gentle flex of his superior’s hand. “After you went into Q’s office an agent came in,” he glanced over the top of his monitor, brown eyes fixing nervously on Falk’s calm visage. “He spoke to one of the other techs and that tech passed on the message.”

“Who was the first tech, Greg?” Danielle’s tone was soft.

“I don’t know, but I think it was someone by the door.” After a gentle scratch from Danielle he continued. Greg wasn’t nearly as tense as he had been, eyes drooping from the gentle massage. “The message wasn’t really anything important but apparently we weren’t supposed to tell you – “ His eyes widened, suddenly realizing he was doing exactly what he’d been instructed not to. The stab of panic dissipated under gentle scratches and shushing from the catamount, who glanced over at Falk with an amused smirk; she was enjoying this a little too much. “Uh, yeah, h-he just said that there were some really important things going on and that we needed to be really-really quiet and leave Q alone.”

Falk and Danielle waited for the intern to continue, and when he didn’t, they shared a glance. “And...?” Falk pushed, that couldn’t possibly be all, not to keep a curious department like Q-branch sedated like this.

Greg flushed, “ah, I think there was some kind of bribe, but I really don’t know. I’m just an intern, I do as I’m told.”

Danielle sighed and pulled her hand back after one more scratch, stepping around the desk to stand with Falk. “Nothing for it then; you go back to doing whatever you had planned for today and I’ll look into this.” She tutted at Falk’s raised brow, “none of that, pet, it’s been rather dull as of late. And who better to ferret out answers to this problem than me?” She had a point, though Falk was loathe to admit it.

“Fine, fine!” Falk spun on the toe of one sock clad foot, huffing out a breath. “Take all the joy out of my work, Danielle! If you find me climbing the walls in boredom later on, be sure to note in my medical admission papers that it’s entirely your fault!” He stalked back to his office to the sounds of snickering behind him. He really had nothing better to do today; for once he was caught up on paperwork and unless there was a sudden international crisis Q-branch wasn’t slated to outfit agents for any important missions until the next week. Really, no work and no play made Falk a very bored boy. He nudged the door of his office mostly shut once inside and padded to his desk. He took another handful of rosehips, tucked them into his pocket (which was already bulging with the round fruit), and powered down his laptop. His shoes were next to come on and, after making sure everything was in its place and there were no erroneous tasks he’d forgotten to tend to, Falk slipped back out of his office, leaving the light on, shades drawn, and door cracked open.

Q-branch would know he wasn’t holed up in his office, though they knew better than to tell anyone who asked where he'd gone. He padded through the rows of desks and through a door opposite Greg’s corner. Motion sensors flicked lights on ahead of him, revealing bare cement walls and a matching floor that sloped downward. The R&D labs had been built out of the way and below Q-branch. The rooms were staggered to prevent a domino effect if one were to ever collapse. The walk to R&D was silent aside from the soft click of Falk’s shoes and the hum of the electric lights. He missed working down here. While chinchilla didn't live underground, he enjoyed the quiet and the odd comfort the space brought him. He left the corridor and continued into the well-lit offices that made up the practical testing areas for R&D. Most of the offices were up higher, above ground and overlooking the Thames. These labs, on the other hand, were intended for testing and application of the more destructive projects of Q-branch. Falk had many fond memories of wiring miniature explosives and mixing anti-venoms down here. Only the most dangerous components were kept this far below MI6. He nodded to the few techs in the midst of testing, moving onwards and through another set of doors. He ducked into the first office on the left and shut the door behind him. Using a hand scanner, pass code, and key card Falk opened a cabinet along the back wall and pulled free two boxes.

He set the two, gently, onto the steel table at the center of the room and went about emptying them. Inside one box, the larger of the two, were the pieces to a prototype SMG that he’d been fiddling with in his free time. The piece of weaponry was a mix of steel and carbon fibres, an odd mixture that he fully intended on improving, if and when he had time. With careful fingers Falk assembled the semi-automatic, sliding each piece into place with the sort of care most people reserved for explosives or small children. With one last sharp push and a snap the gun was assembled. It gleamed dully under the fluorescent lighting and Falk smiled. As much as he enjoyed coding and working with chemicals there wasn’t quite anything so fulfilling as creating a gun from scratch. Even if no one but him would ever get a chance to use it. Actually, scratch that, _especially_ if no one but him ever got to use it. Falk plucked the second box from the table and left the room, pulling the door open with his free hand. The door locked behind him and it wasn’t more than a moment's walk to the R &D range. Luckily he was the only occupant.

Falk selected the center lane and set down his supplies. He unloaded several full clips onto the table and set the box down outside the partition. Nimble hands plucked the specially designed ear and eye protection from their hooks under the table and slipped them on. A target was already strapped into place and with a twitch of his elbow against a wall-mounted switch he sent the target back to fifteen feet. The brunette was confident in his ability to hit the target at a greater distance, but it didn’t hurt to start with an easy shot.

Gently, he pried loose one of the rounds. The modified 9mm round was clear with a wickedly sharp steel tip, the body of the round was housing for what would later be a multitude of materials. He may have told Bond that Q-branch no longer went in for exploding pens, but he hadn’t said anything about explosive pistol rounds. Right now the small bullets were filled with a vibrant pink ink; the fluid was thick enough to adequately show against dark material but liquid enough to spread evenly. He was rather proud. Falk tossed the round up and, with a flick of his wrist, caught and slid the bullet home into the clip. Another twist and a sharp jerk of his arm had the elongated clip snapping into place.

Anyone who walked in at that moment would most certainly have turned and strode back out, just from the wicked smile that pulled Falk’s mouth wide.

He lifted the submachine gun to his chest, pressing the stock against the crux of his shoulder where it sat comfortably. Falk may have been a chinchilla, and built slimly for speed and flexibility rahter than strength, but the recoil from this SMG was little more than a gentle push when it fired. Really, he’d outdone himself with the kick back. His left hand came up to curl around the bottom front stock, cradling the length of the barrel and muzzle without ever coming close to touching the soon-to-be superheated metal. He lined up his shot, staring through the holographic sight, and flicked the safety off with his right index. It took barely a thought to change his breathing into slow, deep, inhales and even slower exhales. The length of his right finger slid down, past the trigger guard to curl around the sharp line of the steel trigger. He absently caressed the cool steel as he adjusted his stance, settling further.

In the pause between one breath and the next Falk’s finger tightened and the SMG barked. The stock pressed back into his shoulder once, twice, three times. While capable of semi-auto and full-auto firing, Falk was content with single shots for the moment. He continued breathing and firing until his clip was empty and kept still, letting himself still and adjust. He flicked the safety back on and gently set the gun, muzzle pointed down range, onto the table. He removed the clip, absently checking for marks on both gun and clip before setting that aside as well.

The cool brush of scaled fingers along the bare nape of Falk’s neck made him freeze, hands shifting into long, sharp claws. Though his ear protection was no doubt to blame, Falk wasn’t disillusioned enough to believe that his visitor had been any more perceptible without them. The chinchilla ducked forward and away, turning so that his hips brushed the edge of the table without disturbing any of the equipment on top. He glared through the yellow lenses, ears dislodging the protection with an angry twitch. They clattered to the table beside the gun.

Bond, hand casually outstretched, watched him with one raised brow. His smile was wide and vicious, the sight sending a line of...something down Falk’s spine. The black slits of Bond’s pupils were nearly lost among the blue of his eyes, pale and predatory, even under the cheap indoor lighting.


	5. Chapter 5

Even having moved away several inches, Bond’s fingers still hovered too close to Falk’s mouth. The boffin focused on the calloused tips before glancing past them to the older agent’s face. Bond looked calm, then again he almost always looked calm. His posture was relaxed but that didn’t lessen the instinctual response of _runrunrun_ that thrummed through the Quartermaster’s limbs.

“Double-Oh-Seven, what can I do for you?” Falk’s breath ghosted over Bond’s fingertips and the big man shivered. _Oh, well then,_ he figured he may as well work with that he’d been given. Maybe he'd get to play predator instead of prey for once.

As the moment for Bond to respond came and went the slim man shifted to the side and forward. He didn’t close the distance between them entirely, just enough so that Bond’s outstretched hand found itself all but nestled in the outer curls of Falk’s impressive mop. The bottoms of his rounded ears twitched against the cool skin. Another shiver passed through the double-oh and Falk bit back a grin. _Interesting_. “Double-Oh-Seven...?” He tilted his head slightly towards the agent’s hand, which had turned so that the softer flesh of his palm was to Falk’s face, not quite touching. The slight angle of the younger man’s head made it so  on his next breath the calloused palm gently, faintly, touched Falk’s cheek.

Bond withdrew his hand as though burned, stepping back one and then two paces to put distance between them. That was fine by Falk, he liked having a constant bubble of inunterrupted personal space.   Carefully Falk straightened, jerking his head back and slightly to the side so that his fringe settled into the mass of curls rather than across his eyes. He watched Bond for a second before shrugging and turning on his heel. With deft hands the Quartermaster went about checking his gun and again taping one elbow to the button on the wall drew the target back to his table. He unhooked the tattered paper, each shot having punctured the inner four rings of the chest, and tucked it away to his side. He clipped on another and sent the target back, this time to thirty feet. It wasn’t until he’d slid in another magazine and pulled back the slide, ear protection again applied, that he noticed any movement from Bond.

The older man had taken up residence in the lane two down from Falk, on his right. The only reason he’d noticed was the addition of another paper target. It was stationed approximately fifty feet back; if the stubborn reptile wanted to show off to an empty room, so be it. The chin went about his perfunctory checks before raising the stock once more to his shoulder, lining up his shot, and gently coaxing the trigger into submission.

_Snap! Pop!_

The round impacted the target’s forehead before slamming into the far wall.

Falk was too busy swearing a blue streak to care about his perfect shot. He managed to click on the safety and drop the clip before all but throwing his prototype onto the table. It caught on the far edge, a raised lip keeping the weapon from falling into the range. He was torn between raising a hand to check his face and clutching the fingers of his right hand around his left to stem the blood flow. _Shrapnel to the face, or severed finger, hmm, decisions, decisions._ Really, his subconscious needed to stop interjecting snark into the worst possible moments. Falk shook his head, ear coverings falling off, thumping against his back on the way down, and glasses sliding down his nose. He snarled, frustrated, angry, and in pain.

Before he could manage another furious shake the glasses were plucked from his nose and set onto the table. The thin man turned, face half snarl, half pained grimace to have his chin gently caught by a cool hand. The glare he directed at Bond wasn’t intentional, Falk wasn’t mad at _him_ but the other agent caught the full force of Falk’s temper.

He could tell, both by the alarmed flicker of emotion across Bond’s impassive features, and the hot drip of blood onto and through his collar, that his face had definitely taken a hit. On the plus side, he could see with both eyes. That had to count for something. Bond’s other hand came around the bicep on Falk’s wounded side and gently pulled the other man out of his lane. The edges of his vision populated with black motes but he shook them off. Now was not a good time to pass out. Though he wobbled, he managed to reach the spare break room down the hall and around the corner from the range. Bond coaxed Falk into perching on one of the couches, overstuffed and easy to get stuck in (Falk had some experience with the Q-branch furniture almost eating him). The double-oh stepped into the washroom and returned with a modest first-aid kit. By Q-branch standards, modest actually meant a duffle with straining seams.

He watched Bond occupy the coffee table at his knees. He leant forward and took both of Falk’s hands in his own. The boffin’s slender digits were dwarfed by Bond’s thicker, darker, calloused hands. With surprising gentleness he pried away Falk’s right hand from where it was clenched tightly around his left. The younger man looked away sharply, eyes clenching shut as he fought down a wave of nausea. He wasn’t usually offended by blood, but these were his _fingers_. Without them he didn’t have a job, a life. He was nobody without his hands to code, write, and craft with. He bit back a sob and began piecing together strings of ones and zeroes in his head to distract himself from Bond’s ministrations. He heard the tell tale _zip_ and the rustle of canvas while Bond fished through the bag. After a moment his second hand returned and tugged Falk’s uninjured hand away again and pressed it down onto the point of one thick knee. His fingers latched on to the point of contact, digging into the cords of muscle through the soft layer of high-end wool and likely leaving behind trails of smeared blood. Bond huffed, the sound both amused and uncomfortable. Apologetic, the Quartermaster whined and lessened his grip slightly. Bond’s fingers returned to the young man’s hand and squeezed, pressing the long fingers into the muscle a little more tightly. Falk gave another squeeze, _thanks_ , before returning to his mental coding. The feel of Bond’s warmth under his hand was enough to ground him.

Bond gently dabbed around the wounds with a wad of cotton, not yet touching the shredded skin. The chinchilla chittered regardless, ears flopping forward and back. One brushed Bond’s hair and the older man looked up. Falk caught the movement from the corner of his eye and he looked over, dilated green eyes meeting calm arctic blue. Swallowing he jerked his head away again, this time flapping his ears forward to cover part of his face. After a few breaths Bond returned to the hand in his grasp.

It wasn’t long before it was cleaned, disinfected, doused with a liberal amount of salve, and wrapped in stiff white bandages. Bond gently patted the younger man’s wrist after setting it onto his knee with its twin. Falk’s ears twitched.

Again a cool hand cupped his chin and gently turned the Quartermaster’s face into the light. The double-oh _tsk’d_ and went about wiping away the blood still dripping down Falk’s jaw. There were several winces and one particularly embarrassing flinch paired with a pained chitter that prompted Bond to actually _shush_ the Quartermaster before the agent pulled the stained cloth away. He expertly tossed the flannel into the bin across from the couch, against the far wall, and went back to eyeing Falk’s wound.

“That counts as toxic waste, you know.” Those few words were enough to make him cringe, his lip pulling in two directions. _Well, that can’t be good..._ Falk swallowed and pursed his lips, trying to ignore how that too felt wrong.

The double-oh rolled his eyes and deftly plucked a pair of tweezers from the bag and unwrapped them from their sterile packet. He held a thick swathe of folded gauze in his other hand and stared at Falk, eyes calm arctic shards. “This will probably hurt, but I need to get those bits out.” At his patient’s thick gulp and weak nod, Bond went to work.

He had to bracket Falk’s lean legs with his own thick thighs to keep the younger man from squirming away as the metal prongs dug into ruined flesh. After the first few attempts the double-oh huffed and pulled back. The chin’s gaze followed, ears quivering against his dark mass of curls. His good hand was clenched into the fabric of the couch rather than Bond’s knee, knuckles starkly white against the dark cloth. Bond sighed.

“Q...” A whimper was his response, Bond sighed again. He quickly tucked one arm under the younger man’s knees and twisted. With the sharp change of direction Falk’s body turned so that his head impacted the seat cushions. Bond wasted no time in straddling the younger man’s hips and cupping his uninjured cheek with one strong hand.  Bond’s grip shifted to hold the boffin’s head at a different angle, leaving Falk’s panicked breaths to ghost over the webbing between thumb and forefinger. The thrum of the younger man’s pulse beat against his pinky finger where it was pressed to the underside of his jaw.

Bond’s tail wrapped itself around Falk’s legs, keeping him from wriggling too much. The gentle press of hard scales against thin limbs both terrified and comforted the boffin. Bond was a living weapon, and here he was playing nurse. That of course, damn his imagination, prompted an oddly tempting vision of the double-oh dressed in a very short, old style nurse outfit. Falk promptly went about beating his subconscious into a metaphorical bloody pulp.

The sharp prongs of the tweezers dug into the soft flesh of Falk’s jaw and he yelped, good hand slapping at Bond’s sturdy mass. The tail unwound from Falk’s legs to capture the flailing appendage and tuck it between Bond’s thigh and Falk’s hip. The younger man’s tail was erratically switching between quivering and thumping the couch cushions. _He really didn’t like pain!_ The plated tail went there next and twined itself with the softly furred appendage, gently squeezing.

At some point Bond began hissing; a low, gentle sound that was one part seductive gravel, one part reassurance. The sound was out of place coming from Bond, but it helped Falk to relax somewhat. He chittered back; soft sounds that were almost pleading. The animalistic sounds weren’t understandable as words were, but the inflection was enough. It didn’t take long for all the bits of shrapnel to be pried loose. Each one was tossed onto the table beside them, landing with a metallic _clink_. The double-oh closed the worst of the wounds with butterfly bandages before smearing antiseptic over the rest and applying a crisp white bandage, matching the ones on Falk’s fingers. The blonde remained straddling the boffin’s hips for a few moments more, gently hissing and carefully turning the young man’s head back and forth. At some point the chin had closed his eyes and didn’t think to open them until he felt the double-oh pull away.

Bond looked far too at ease settled across the Quartermaster’s lap, the points of his knees just under Falk’s floating ribs, his thighs pressing against the bony juts of slim hips. The brunette found himself unable to look away from those pale eyes. The calloused pad of Bond’s thumb gently stroked the corner of the younger man’s mouth. Falk’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, the tip just brushing against Bond’s nail. The bigger man shuddered, legs tightening, tail squeezing. The Quartermaster watched as the slit pupil widened until only a white-blue ring was left. Breath caught in his throat, Falk didn’t dare move as the double-oh leant forward until scarcely an inch remained between them.

This was unprofessional, he was the MI6 Quartermaster and he would be damned if he let some _lizard_ get to him. Especially in his own lab! Any second now Falk would throw the double-oh off, tear a verbal strip from his hide, and then banish the deviant from his branch indefinitely. Yes, exactly! That would show him, no one could mess with - !

Really, he _had_ intended to do just that. But with the first gentle press of thin, slightly chapped lips to his own blood-swollen pair, any thought the Quartermaster had entertained about asserting dominance promptly flew out the metaphorical window. The kiss was gentle, merely a brush of lips that seemed suspended in time. Bond’s lips were outwardly cool, but the chinchilla could feel the promise of _heat_ with each breath the double-oh exhaled against his mouth. Falk’s lips parted slightly and he chittered softly. Bond hissed back. There was the faintest touch of a thin, forked tongue to the warm inside of Falk’s upper lip before the double-oh was suddenly gone.

The brunette blinked up, momentarily blinded by the overhead lights. Then he turned his head to watch Bond tuck the bloodied metal bits into a plastic bag, the top adorned with a thick red label that read ‘ _EVIDENCE’_. The agent tidied up the bloodied fabric and implements, tossing the whole lot into the bin to join the soiled flannel.

“What did you blow up this time?”

Falk blinked and lifted his head from the couch. His hair must be in a right mess, and his ears and cheeks flushed. The aforementioned appendages perked up, the rest of his body following until he was sitting properly on the couch. He gave Moneypenny a sheepish look. “It was an accident this time, promise.”

“Mhmm,” she gave him a pointed glare, promising a later, more thorough interrogation, before turning her attention to Bond. “And what part did you play in this, Double-Oh-Seven?”

“I was merely sharing the range when it happened. Anyone with half a brain would have done the same.” He slanted a cheeky grin back at Falk, “we can’t have our Quartermaster bleeding out on the floor of his own branch after all.”

Falk huffed, “it wasn’t nearly that bad!” He held up his bandaged hand, “see?”

Moneypenny rolled her eyes and stepped forward to haul Falk to his feet. The mammal went with only the smallest of protests. Bond stood behind the coffee table, between the doors to the washrooms. He stared at Falk as they exchanged thanks and social niceties before Eve hauled Falk from the room. Bond’s eyes didn’t leave the Quartermaster’s frame until the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

“So, what _did_ you do, anyway?”

He huffed, tail curled around one thigh as he walked beside Eve. “I was testing that prototype SMG I told you about.” She gave a quiet _ah_ and he continued, “something went wrong in the chamber or barrel and it backfired.”

Eve stopped and turned to stare at him, eyes wide and jaw slack. “Q, your gun _backfired_?!”

He coughed and scratched the back of his head, sheepish, “...yes...?”

She growled and swatted at him, which he allowed. He probably deserved it. Well, not probably, definitely. She worried too much about him. “How are you so damn calm? You could have blown your head off!”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you _could have_.”

“Didn’t.”

“ _Auuuuugh!”_ Eve turned on her heel, hands thrown into the air, and stalked away.

Falk laughed and followed her, tail once again bouncing at his back. He caught up and gently tugged her’s; the caramel and dark chocolate fur soft under his uninjured fingers. “Oh come on, just lecture me, give me a big hug, and get over it.” That earned him another swipe though she did grab his right hand in her left and didn’t let go until they reached Q-branch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things folks, and feel free to message me here via comments, tumblr, etc.. if you have any questions or comments.  
> 1) This is a fair bit longer than I had intended at almost four-thousand words...oops... But not only did I feel bad for taking so long to update, I couldn't find a decent place to break off. So, enjoy :D  
> 2) Please refrain from killing me (otherwise no new chapters).  
> 3) This is mostly edited. I kept looking it over and while not entirely happy with the overall flow and dialogue (grr, dialogue) I couldn't keep nitpicking.  
> 4) If you haven't played any of the Overlord series, go do so now.... -NOW-  
> 5) Wow this list has gotten out of hand. I blame the Ativan; I'm going to go try and sleep off this anxiety attack. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting in the past and in the future! <3

As much as Falk wanted to head back to the range and inspect his faulty weapon, he somehow doubted Moneypenny would allow it. Instead he sent an intern to gather the pieces and pack them away in a spare explosives case. He would take a look at the gun in a few days, once his fingers had healed enough for it. In the meantime the chinchilla padded to the control center in Q-branch. He stood behind the mass of touch screen computers that composed the majority of the control desk, scanning through the various feeds.

“Go home, Q.” Eve glared at him from the other side of his desk, one toe tapping and arms crossed.

He refrained from looking at her, instead taking a folder from a passing tech and checking inside. Ah, the details of Double-Oh-Nine’s mission. After a few lines he sighed and closed the folder. “I have work to do, Moneypenny. I have to kit out and brief Nine on his new mission Intel.” He slid the fingers of his right hand into his pocket, searching for another rosehip. “Just because I was an idiot and lost a few chunks of flesh doesn’t mean - _bloody fucking knob head_!”

Eve jumped, as did every other intern in the vicinity. Without using his injured hand, the chin pulled open his pocket and stared inside. His rather impressive stash of bulbous pink and red fruit was missing. Falk hissed, ears pressing back against his skull. An intern whimpered and he whirled.

“ _ **Someone bring me Bond’s head!**_ ” The Quartermaster roared. He seethed and only just remembered not to clench his left hand as well as his right. “A skid of B.A.W.L.S. goes to whoever brings me that slimy reptile’s head on a pike! Or over a spit, I don’t care which!”

Eve watched curiously as the previously frozen Q-branchers leapt into action. The four sections of the department split off into their assigned pods, huddling into tight packs. Occasionally someone would pop up from each huddle, glare over at the other three, and then be dragged back in by a hand clenched in their shirt collar. Eve snorted after the third intern popped up, only to be caught in a staring contest with another pod and was then dragged back down by no less than four sets of hands. She turned to Falk and raised one finely manicured brow, “Q, what have you done to your minions?”

“Subordinates,” he mumbled reflexively, the fingers of his right hand flying across his keyboard in a blur. “Why does everyone insist on calling them my minions? I don’t even have a mace or a sufficiently threatening suit of armor.” He found what he’d been looking for and stood. He looked out over his min- err, subordinates, and pursed his lips. “Reds!”

The pod closest to the Q-branch doors snapped to attention, eager faces trained on their Quartermaster. Double-Oh-Nine, who was passing the pod at that moment, jumped back, startled. His hand went for a gun he didn’t have and froze in place. Falk ignored the agent for now, focusing on the team assembled.

“Plan of action, Reds?”

A short, balding man with a slight ponch and suspenders shuffled to the fore of the group. He wiped his glasses on the hem of his shirt and stared up at Falk. “Yes, sir.” At the Quartermaster’s nod, he replaced his glasses and the pod dispersed. There was little chatter among them, their faces a mix of grim determination and manic glee.

“Q...what did you just call your mi – err, _employees_?” Eve wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but the question needed to be asked.

“My Reds, that gathering over there in the corner, are demolitions experts.” Eve’s jaw dropped. “They’re particularly talented with projectiles too.” He shrugged and turned to view the next group. “Greens!”

The pod directly in front of the Reds, closest to the R&D hallways, moved as one to stand. While the Reds were a mixture of birds and rodents, the Greens were composed almost entirely of felines. A few insect-types had integrated themselves into the hunter-pack, who now watched their Quartermaster with intense, hungry eyes.

Eve gulped. “Ah, Q, Greens...?”

The chinchilla glanced at her, “infiltration specialists; they do most of the stealth weaponry for assassinations and are in charge of the placement and Intel gathering for field-agents.” He turned back to his eager minions.

Nine, who had come to stand beside the Fennec, swallowed thickly and sidled closer to the ex-field agent. Eve glanced up at the taller man and nodded slightly. Nine’s tall, slim ears bent towards her and then back; is nose wiggled. Nine was a rabbit of the Flemish Giant variety. He was broad, muscular, and incredibly tall. Eve had noticed Bond glaring at the other double-oh whenever they were partnered; or even in the same room. It was amusing, to say the least. She leant closer and covered her mouth with one hand. “Do you want to know? Or are you still interested in plausible deniability?”

Nine, less often referred to by his birth name of Ben Frost, snorted, “Do tell, do tell.” He grinned at her and Eve went about explaining what she knew. As she mentioned Falk’s mysterious gift from that morning his expression shifted a bit; his bright grin fading into a frown. The rabbit’s brown ears twitched and his nose wiggled again. “So, someone is trying to woo him, then?”

Eve raised her brows, “woo him? Who the hell uses ‘woo’ anymore?” Nine shrugged, his cheeks slightly pink. The Fennec narrowed her eyes and leant into the Flemish’s space. She was a good five inches shorter than Nine, but that didn’t stop the fox from intimidating him. “ _Nine_...” Eve let the threat hang and the big man gulped.

“Uh...yes, my dearest Moneypenny?”

“I know that look,” she spoke over his squeak of ‘what look?’, “what do you know about Q’s gift?” He opened his mouth to _deny, deny, deny_ only to snap it shut at a growl from Eve. “Don’t lie to me sweetie, I’ll eat you for dinner.”

Nine gulped and laughed weakly, “n-not much...” He may have been a double-oh, but Nine was new to the double-oh programme, and he hadn’t acquired a thick enough skin to repel such looks from Eve. M absolutely terrified him, but Eve? She was downright scary. Moneypenny opened her mouth to start in on him only to pull back with a huff. Her squinted eyes promised they weren’t done. She turned back to the minions in a smooth twirl of bright cloth.

They watched a young woman approach command; her skin was faintly green, her teeth coming to wicked points visible as she grinned. An extra set of arms were crossed over her stomach. The look she shared with Falk was predatory. “We have a plan, Q.” The Quartermaster nodded and she hissed, pleased, before turning and darting back to her pod.

Falk slanted a glance back at the agents behind him, one brow raised. “What mischief are you two concocting back there?” He was met with two large and obviously fake, innocent grins. The Chinchilla rolled his eyes, flicked one ear, and spun to face the opposite side of the room. “Blues!”

It seemed as though the entire group moved forward this time. The Blues were a mosaic of species: birds, insects, and mammals. An intern was gently shoved from the huddle, Gregory, who squeaked. “S-sir! W-we think, I mean, k-know what to do.” At his boss’ nod the mouse scurried back into the gathering of his peers.

Not staying to watch, Falk shifted eye to the last pod; all of which were eyeing him with manic grins. A wicked smile crossed the Quartermaster’s lips. “My Blues are the chemists of the lot. They handle poison and antidote production as well as medevac for agents in the field. The Blues are my bridge with medical.” Falk winked, “it’s how I get all the good meds.”

He needn’t have called out to the last group, but he did. The chin leant forward, bracing his hands on the railings to either side of his canted hips and _purred_. “ _Browns_ ,” eager yips and grunts spilled from the rigidly formed ranks of mammals in the back corner.

Moneypenny easily guessed what the Browns were good for, but Falk explained nonetheless. His grin was feral, “my Browns are the heavy hitters. They primarily work in R&D perfecting new weaponry and repairing old, destroyed pieces.” The Browns consisted of the largest mammals MI6 had to offer. Capybara, wolves, one Bengal tiger, several bison, and even a silverback gorilla stared at their overlord with feral anticipation. “Are you ready for a good hunt, _sweetlings_?”

Eve and Nine simultaneously shivered. This was a tone neither had ever heard from him, and it promised dark, dirty things best left to the bedroom...or a torture chamber. Nine’s cheeks flushed and Eve hummed, eyes hooded.

The Browns’ reply was almost deafening in volume. They called out in a cacophony of sound, rising and mixing until all the agents heard was a thrum of white noise. Falk threw back his head and cackled, the tension in the branch reaching a crescendo. He raised his arms and bellowed out, “fly my pretties, fly!” The Browns responded with another enthusiastic burst of sound before splitting into two even groups. One pack exited Q-branch via the main doors, the second all but racing through the entrance to R&D. The remaining three pods worked faster and soon they too disbanded. The Blues and Greens banding together while the Reds went strutting off on their own.

Bond was well and truly fucked.

\------------------

Coming down from his adrenaline high, Falk spun to fully face Eve and Nine. His smile was gentle and relaxed, though at odds with the blood still spattered on his collar and down across one side of his chest. The Quartermaster crossed his ankles and laced his fingers together against his back and just above the base of his tail. “Double-Oh-Nine, good of you to be on time.”

Nine jumped before a bit before schooling his expression. “Q, as always it’s a pleasure to see you.” The double-oh was a big softie and everyone knew it, especially when it came to the Quartermaster. “What have you got for me?”

“ _Plenty_ ,” the purr returned to his tone. Nine jumped again, tail twitching just a bit in the space between his suit jacket tails. A seductive Quartermaster was a scary and enticing Quartermaster, _oh dear_. “But it seems that your orders have been changed. Double-Oh-Eight is to join you on this one.” Falk chuckled darkly as Nine groaned and made, ‘why me’ motions with his hands. No one liked working with Eight. The man, an Iberian lynx, was a terror. In the field he was known for his high success rate in information gathering, especially where seduction was needed (or possible). He had a love of explosions and made an effort to have the highest kill count possible on each mission. While the double-oh was a terror in the field, he was nearly twice as disruptive on English soil. Eight, Thomas Wren, had taken to prowling around MI6 during his mandatory down time. HR had been hit first; then accounting, marketing, international relations, the cafeteria staff, and most recently, Q-branch.

The big cat was often seen prowling up and down the hallways around the bunker, looking in through the thick windows with undisguised hunger. Eight made a point of haunting the tech department when Falk was absent; he knew, just as well as anyone else, the Quartermaster watched his flock like a particularly vindictive sheepdog. Falk’s minions (subordinates) were his babies, just as much as any of his explosives or prototypes, and he’d be damned if someone fucked with them. Well, maybe not damned; reaching for the .45 in his bottom desk drawer more like. Even with their Quartermaster’s ire blocking the majority of Eight’s ‘come-hither’ stares, several members of Q-branch had already fallen victim to the feline. The line, ‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the Spider to the Fly, was posted in several spots around the bunker. At first the yellow papers had been a passive aggressive way for Falk to warn the techies away from field-agents as a whole, but as time progressed and Wren became Eight, the warnings more recently pertained to him. Sadly, interns were interns, and they were inherently stupid.

Being partnered with Eight meant that Nine would not only need to complete his mission objective, but keeping Eight in check as well. That also meant keeping him out from under every skirt the double-oh saw. Or in a convenient pair of occupied trousers, whichever caught his fancy. Falk patted Nine on the shoulder, only having to reach an inch and a half less than Moneypenny to do so. He padded from the command center, through the eerily empty branch, and up the stairs to his office. Danielle waved from her desk. Falk waved too, hiding his bad hand behind his back. Nine and Eve followed behind, the PA boring holes into the rabbit’s _soul_.

The chin sunk into his ergonomic computer chair and sighed. He did his best to revert to a puddle of goo rather than a solid mass of stressed mammal. Eve shut the door behind them, habitually locking the door. Nine folded himself into one of the chairs across from the hacker, hands clasped in his lap.

He sniffed the air and hummed, “Q, what is that _delicious_ smell?” The rabbit missed the frantic arm flailing from Eve and instead smiled at the Quartermaster. The code master’s ears flopped back and he narrowed his vibrant eyes at the brunette. Nine blinked innocently. He really had no idea what trouble he was inviting.

“ _That_ , agent, is the reason I have my branch hunting down Bond.”

Nine blinked again and, damn was he adorable, and tilted his head slightly. One ear flopped over and he twitched it back up. “Really? What did he do?”

The overlord of Q-branch sighed and gave up on taking his aggression out on the double-oh. It was impossible to be mad at Nine; the man was, for his size, absolutely adorable. Instead, he leant forward and silently unlocked his personal safe, drawing forth a handful of his rosehips. Immediately stuffing two of the larger bulbs in his mouth, Falk held out his cupped hands. Nine’s smile was blinding and he helped himself to three, all of which were miniscule. Falk huffed, chittered, and forced two more into Ben’s hands. They were the largest of the handful. Eve took one and considered it for a moment before popping it into her mouth with a pleased hum. She waved off Falk’s attempts to share any more.

The chinchilla settled back into his chair, kicked off his shoes, and then pried his socks free with just his toes. A swipe of one foot and a twist later, Falk closed and locked the safe. “Tasty?” Nine nodded enthusiastically. “I had a bloody pocketful when I went down to R&D not two hours ago. I try not to mix metal shavings and food when I can, so I refrained from indulging while I worked. Imagine my surprise when, after Bond’s patched me back up,” he bared his bandaged hand and waved it towards his face, “I go looking for my snack and instead find _lint_.” He scowled and stuck his tongue out petulantly. “Bloody lizard stole my treats!”

Nine chuckled and caught the bulb that was whipped at his face in reply, popping it into his mouth. The rabbit chewed the bud happily, grinning at the hacker once he’d swallowed. “I can see why, though. These things are _fantastic_!”

Falk’s tongue poked from between his lips again. “It doesn’t mean he can go around stealing! Especially not from me.” Sometimes Falk forgot he wasn’t a child anymore. He sat in his chair; tail wrapped around one leg, feet braced on his desk, and pouted. “Everyone should know that I don’t bloody well share my snacks.” His indignation was lost in the peals of laughter from Moneypenny.

Falk threw a stapler at her head.

\-------

It was another hour before Eight made an appearance, a whole forty-five minutes late. He tried the door to Falk’s office first. The windows were still blacked out, meaning he couldn’t see inside. This apparently made the feline cocky. Eight was balanced on his heels with an ear pressed to the door when Falk ripped it open. The double-oh hissed and stood quickly, embarrassed and trying to cover it with intimidation. Falk stared him down before padding back to his desk. Nine glanced at Eight and sighed, ears drooping. Falk made out a faint, ‘but I don’t wanna,’ before the agent straightened and smoothed his expression. Poor man, he wouldn’t wish Eight-sitting duty on anyone, not even accounting... Okay, so that was a lie, he’d sick Eight on accounting any day of the week. And maybe a few extra days he’d made up to give the illusion of free time on his calendar.

“Quartermaster, Moneypenny, Benny; good to see you all.” Nine grimaced and Falk was once again thankful the double-oh didn’t know his name. Eve levelled a cool stare at Eight. She didn’t stand and when Nine made to she stared him down until the rabbit fell back into his chair. “Did you all start without me then?” He stared at the open collar of Falk’s shirt, taking in the blood. “Mmm, is it casual Friday? No one told me! This is turning out to be a good day!”

“Agent, you are already putting this mission behind schedule. I recommend you shut up.” Falk bit out the words, expression as blank as he could manage. His tail tightened against his leg in mimicry of what he wanted to do with Eight’s neck.

“Alright, alright, no need to get _excited_ ,” the purr was lewd and wholly directed at Falk.

The Quartermaster huffed and pulled open the folder. He handed each agent his copy of the dossier and leapt into work. For all Falk’s patience he barely lasted ten minutes before snapping at Eight. The agent might not make it to the actual mission if he kept this shit up.

\---------

After an absolutely painful hour of near constant interruptions, the brief was complete. The hacker waved out Nine and Eve first, throwing himself before the metaphorical bus. The Flemish Giant didn’t need to spend any more time around Eight than was strictly necessary. His selfless actions just meant Nine owed the chin a rather large favour.

As the door shut behind the duo, Falk sighed and raised a hand to his hair. Apparently he, being a genius, was also an idiot. The fingers of the hacker’s left hand throbbed painfully at the pressure and he pulled back, hissing. Falk glared at his fingers accusingly before flattening his palm against the cool wood of the desk.

“What did you manage to do to yourself, Quartermaster?” Eight’s smooth baritone cut through Falk’s focus and he jumped. Green eyes snapped up to catch gold. Wren sat in Nine’s vacated chair with one elbow on the armrest, supporting his chin. The catamount’s golden eyes took in Falk’s bandages, assessing. “It looks rather nasty, are you alright?”

“I, ah, yes, agent; I’m just fine, thank you. Just had a bit of a problem down at the range before your brief. This isn’t anything a few days on light duties won’t heal.” Even sitting still and simply watching Falk, Eight was intimidating. He was a large man, barrel chested and long-bodied. His skin was a light caramel colour that when in his animal form, matched his pelt perfectly. His longish dark hair was carefully slicked back from his face with just a touch of product. Eight's features were angular; his eyes almond shaped and framed by dark lashes, his lips pert and dark. His goatee was short and manicured, framing his mouth in a way that caught even Falk’s eye. The Quartermaster coughed weakly and looked back to his desk. Eight was very attractive, and the man knew it.

The calloused pads of Eight’s fingers brushed against the unwrapped tips of Falk’s left hand. He jumped, head snapping up to stare at the agent. Eight smiled gently, an odd expression on his normally seductive features. The man’s other hand came up and between the two he carefully coaxed Falk’s hand over. Thomas’ grip was careful and his touches light. He followed the lines of bandaging and smoothed out invisible wrinkles. Falk had entirely forgotten to breathe, apparently. He sucked in a breath, the double-oh’s head rising to watch.

“I haven’t hurt you, have I, Q?”

“Hmm...? Oh! No, you haven’t. Apologies, the wounds are just a bit tender is all.” It didn’t even occur to the younger man that he should probably tug his hand free and banish the double-oh from his office. Instead he allowed Eight to continue his consideration of the bandaging, watching with wide eyes. “Is there, ah,” he swallowed thickly, “is there something you still needed, agent?” Falk did his best to ignore the subtle tightening of his trousers, _I am not fifteen anymore! Dammit body!_

“No thank you, Quartermaster, I believe you’ve adequately briefed and outfitted Nine and I for our mission.” He continued to faintly trace the lines of Falk’s bandages.

“You’re still here...why?”

Eight smiled, “because, Q, I’m rather fond of your company. It isn’t as though I have many opportunities in which to have you to myself.” The Lynx carefully lifted the chinchilla's hand to his lips, pressing the barest hint of a kiss to each fingertip and the back.

Falk’s ears had made a valiant effort at retreat; they flopped back to stay pinned low against his neck. The chin gulped and stifled a whimper. Though when Eight’s eyes lifted to meet his own, the wide pupil and pleased smile almost undid him. In reflex born of bad habits, the hacker bit down on his lower lip and yelped. He’d forgotten about the split from earlier. He pressed the tips of his uninjured hand to the wound and winced.

“Tsk, careful now, Q. I wouldn’t want you to become further injured; it might just ruin my day.” Eight stood and leant across the desk, one hand bracing his weight while the other came up to carefully wipe away the sluggishly growing bead of blood. He sniffed it, “mm... such a shame that you’re injured and I’m due to leave.” He casually licked the droplet from his thumb, eyes never leaving Falk’s wide pair. “I’d very much like to play nurse. I don’t imagine there is anyone to tend to you at home...in bed...is there?”

Falk really did whimper this time.

Eight smirked and leant closer until their noses brushed. He didn’t look away from the rodent’s wide eyes once, barely blinking. With painful slowness the lynx closed the space to press a gentle kiss to Falk’s injured lips. The tip of his tongue ran over his superior’s plush lower lip, drawing up another droplet of blood. He drew back and braced himself with both hands on the desk. Eight purred and slowly, dragged his tongue across his own lips, lapping at the faint smear of blood there.

Falk couldn’t do more than stare, dumbfounded.

“Mm, thank you for your patience and attention, Quartermaster. I would very much like to do this again once I’ve completed my mission. How does dinner sound, hmm?” Falk must have mumbled something, maybe nodded (he definitely nodded), and Eight grinned. “ _Perfect,_ I shall stop by after my debrief in a few days time. Be good until then, Q.” The double-oh winked, spun on his heel, and left the office.

Falk simply stared after him, slack jawed.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person... So, who wants to attempt to draw Q?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Apparently I have a thing for mildly injuring Q’s fingers...I did so in chapter 5 of Soft Belly and in another as of yet unpublished piece (which is sitting at 18, 850ish words...). I'm a terrible person. More importantly, Only_1_Truth did a sketch of lizard!Bond! The sound I made wasn't human. If/when I get her ‘go ahead’ I’ll link it :D It’s truly amazing!*
> 
> I realize this is a bit inaccurate, but then again so are human/animal crossbreeds. Chinchilla’s **CANNOT** regrow their tails. If you pull off/break/somehow injure a Chinchilla’s tail, it’s gone forever. Be gentle!!!

7.

"Did they break you?" Falk blinked a few times and looked over at Danielle. She looked rather comfortable, leaning against the food frame with both arms and ankles crossed. A gentle smile pulled her mouth at his lost stare.

"Ehh?"

The feline chuckled, detaching from the frame and coming to perch on the edge of Falk's desk. "I have never seen Eight, Nine, Eve, and you in the same room without some trouble. You and Eve alone cause enough damage to rival the double-oh programme. But with Eight added to the mix," she shook her head, "I expected you to either of tossed the bugger out on his arse with a bloodied nose, or, well..." She shrugged.

Falk narrowed his eyes, "or what..."

"Ah... The minions think he has his eye on you."

He raised a brow, "that isn't exactly a compliment; if it has an orifice and makes eye contact he's interested."

Danielle laughed, "you aren't wrong. But from what I've heard, and seen, he's taken more than a passing interest in you." She swatted at Falk when he rolled his eyes. "Really! Where do you think those rosehips came from?” Falk’s brain stuttered to a halt. His jaw dropped and swung in the breeze. The feline cackled and carefully closed his jaw, grinning. She patted his head, only slightly unnerved by his wide eyed stare.”From what I gathered from Nine, Eight had let slip that he was planning something for a ‘sweetheart’ of his in Q-branch. He dropped off a gift, which I later realized were the rosehips, and then bribed the minions to keep themselves busy so he could sneak up to your office.” She shrugged and patted his mass of curls, “I suppose he was waylaid somewhere between this morning and afternoon; he was late for the brief, yes?”

“Uh...yeah...but...” The chin swallowed, shook his head, and smoothed back his ears. “I really don’t understand. He’s a playboy, everyone knows that. He doesn’t sit still long enough for post-sex cuddles, let alone ‘wooing’. What’s so different with me?”

“I haven’t a clue. But he seems genuine; the damn cat hasn’t harassed any more of our interns this month either. He’s even made an effort to behave while on-mission.” His face must have scrunched oddly as Danielle burst out laughing. “Stop that! I’m serious!” She buried her fingers back into his hair and gently scratched along the crown of his skull. Falk chittered and leant into the touch, his eyes sliding shut. “Maybe give him a chance? If he isn’t sincere, well, you know exactly how to deal with him.”

He hummed, “it isn’t that easy, Danielle.”

“Why not? It doesn’t seem too difficult to me.”

“There’s more to it than that, there has to be,” he sighed. “Bond’s acting in an oddly similar way too.” His cheeks burned and he ducked his head.

“Details, details!” Danielle grinned and scooted over to rest the Quartermaster’s head on her thigh.

“Mmm, he’s been, I don’t know - attentive?” He snuggled in closer, rubbing his cheek against the soft cotton of Danielle’s pant leg. “This last week he’s listened to me when I asked for personal space. He hasn’t harassed me as usual, and he, ah,” he raised his injured hand and gestured towards his face, “he took care of me. He could have left me there, or turned me into medical easily enough. But he put forth the effort to treat my wounds and calm me down. He was _gentle_! And...he kissed me...” The last was mumbled, though Danielle caught the soft words.

“He did _what?”_ Her tone was soft and low, breath brushing across the Quartermaster's scalp.

"He, ah, he kissed...me...?"

There was a moment of quiet before Danielle burst into stifled giggles. "You're telling me that Bond, England's premium ladies man and seducer, the bane of your professional existence, _kissed you_?" Falk poked her thigh and grumbled. "Did you hit him? Wait, don't tell me you made him an exploding pen: this might be his way of saying thank you."

The chinchilla sat up and glared at her through his ruffled fringe. "Danielle, kindly shut up."

She grinned instead. "Sweetheart, don't worry so much. I know you; you don't date. When was the last time you went out? The most recent date I remember was dinner with that sapphire chinchilla girl what, two, three months ago?"

"...four months, thanks, and it didn't go well. Apparently I wasn't dominant enough. She didn't even want to try me out for a night. According to her, I didn't lead her well enough in conversation, and I made her _think_ too much. Ugh." He sank back into his seat. "I don't want a lazy, boring, or unintelligent partner, I want someone who can _challenge me_. But in my own species, I'm too dominant to be a submissive partner, and too gentle to be a dominant." He sighed. "I miss _sex!_ "

Danielle laughed, "and you aren't interested in quick fucks, I know. If they make you see stars, you get real moody when you can't get a second round." She winked and Falk stuck out his tongue. "But maybe these two vying for your attention is what you need. Do you have something against dating outside your species?" He shrugged, not having an opinion, "then go ahead!  If neither work out, no problem! They may be double-ohs, but they know who keeps them alive in the field. Without you, they would have subpar tech and Intel. You don't really have anything to lose, professionally."

Falk wiggled his nose, "you're right, as always. Do I date both? I've never done that before."

It was Danielle's turn to roll her eyes, "sweetheart, go on a date or two, no commitments needed this early."

Falk nodded, "alright. I can do that." He jumped as Danielle dropped his parka over his head.

"Good. Now, kindly fuck off and go home."

He laughed.

\----------------------------

Falk left the office early, for him, again. Two days in a row of leaving the office before seeing the sunrise; wasn’t that something. He left Danielle instructions not to call unless absolutely necessary and that if any more idiot interns locked themselves into any other rooms to either leave them there until he’d managed a good twelve hours of uninterrupted rest. Or to call Tanner, because he was less likely to skin Falk’s interns/minions than the chinchilla was.

The brunette took the Tube, parka tucked around his slim frame. The station was eerily empty at not quite ten at night; an oddity in London. He absently checked his phone while he waited for his train, eyes flicking up now and then to take in his surroundings. As ten-twenty rolled past and there was no train in sight, Falk frowned. He tugged his parka closer. Both his computer and messenger bag had been left at work and he wasn’t quite used to the lack of weight. A few more moments of silence and Falk was ready to just _walk_ home.

_Crash!_

Falk jumped and turned to his right -

Blinding pain streaked out from the back of his neck, his body arching, muscles constricting. There was a hand on his shoulder, the jarring impact of his knees on cement - and then nothing.

\------------------------------

Consciousness was slow to assert itself. It came in flashes of pain, muddled speech, and the rare blurry face crowded into his vision. When he finally managed to retain some form of wakefulness, the chin instantly regretted it. Everything hurt. Falk shivered, tucking his arms against his chest and curling around them. His neck hurt, a kind of odd burning. His muscles were tense and felt as though he'd gone four rounds with a keg of tequila, or half a round in the sparring ring with a double-oh. Swallowing was immediately vetoed as the first constriction felt as though he were choking down razors.

All in all, Falk felt like shit.

He sucked in a series of quick, shallow breaths instead and listened. Wherever he was, the room was silent other than the occasional drip of water. The floor was cold and wet against Falk’s ribs; slimy to the touch. His clothes were gone, and as much as he would have liked to shift and make use of his thick fur coat, Falk didn’t want to risk it. He didn’t know where he was, or who had brought him here. He was already weak and nigh defenseless. Being that much smaller would give his captors another opportunity if they wished him harm. He shivered, then first tendrils of true fear tickling his spine.

He waited until the room stopped spinning behind his closed eyelids, mostly, before raising his head. His contacts were still in place, thankfully, and he was able to make out the basic shape of an unadorned room. Likely he was in an old cellar, the floor and walls were cobblestone and smattered with moss. There was a large metal door against the far side of the room, the hinges and handle on the outside. There were no windows, and only a slit of weak light filtered in from between the ground and the bottom of the door. He couldn't hear anyone or anything beyond the door, and he assumed at least for now he was alone. There was no way he’d be able to get through a door like that, not even in his animal form. His best bet was to make himself as small as possible and try to work out a plan of escape.

Falk lay his head back down, curled in tighter, and waited.

\-------------

It could have been hours or minutes later, but when the locks clanged and the door squealed Falk jerked awake. He scrambled up on his knees and crossed his arms over his chest. The length of his tail curled up between his legs and sheltered his groin. He wasn’t a field agent, he didn’t have training against interrogation, torture, or - Falk pushed the last thought from his mind and stared down the approaching men.

They were large bodied; two he could right away mark as feline. One, after a moment’s inspection, must have been a dog of some kind, but the last... It wasn’t until they were close enough to touch that Falk began to panic. The last male was a large serpent. Unlike Bond, this man’s reptilian characteristics were unflattering. Instead of a defined mouth or nose he merely had slits. His face was triangular and flat, and from what Falk could see was completely hairless. His forked tongue flickered into view and the chin cringed. His captors caught his emerging fear-scent and eager, hungry smiled split their faces.

The dog reached for Falk and he flinched back. His instincts screamed _run run run **run** _ and he scrambled back from the touch. The massive canine growled and followed his prey. As Falk's back slammed into a wall his hair was seized in a vicious grip. He yelped and chittered, hands grasping the canine's thick forearm. He scratched and clawed, struggling to get free. That earned him a backhanded slap that had the chinchilla seeing stars. The cats snatched up his legs and pulled. Falk's back was scratched and cut as they dragged him, kicking and screaming from the wall. The felines released his legs and the dog, using his grip on the long strands of Falk's hair threw him across the room. He landed hard, rolling into the rectangle of light from the hall. He whimpered and curled up again, knowing he wasn't fast enough or strong enough against all four. Against one, two at most, he had a chance of escape.

They surrounded him, bulky frames blotting out the light. There were a few murmured words, French maybe, and that was all the warning he got.

As the men fell upon him, Falk barked and screamed, teeth and claws slashing. But he was too small, too weak against these giant men. They rolled him onto his belly and he thrashed, snarling. One of the cats held his arms while the other and the dog restrained his legs. That left the serpent to straddle the backs of Falk’s thighs. He pressed the rodent against the slick floor and hissed. Falk was struck by the thought of how terrible and different the sound was from what Bond had made earlier. Then, the chinchilla had been soothed by the gentle sounds. As his assailant leant close and flicked the points of his tongue over Falk’s straining back, the young man’s skin crawled.

Hot tears spilled over Falk’s cheeks and he sobbed. His mind didn’t want to process what the four men had planned. He strained against their holds and his skin burned. He felt bruises blossom around his ankles and wrists and where the snake’s fingers dug into the soft flesh at his sides. The cold tips of the man’s fingers trailed from the crease between Falk’s shoulders, down his spine, to curl around his tail, just out from the base.

The chin’s eyes popped open and he stilled, terror streaking through him. “N-no, nononononononono ** _no!_** Oh god, please no!” Falk pleaded in a harsh whisper, his throat raw.

The fingers tightened, twisted, and _pulled_.

Falk screamed.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Falk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested (ie. all of you should be) Only_1_Truth, the author of "No Rest for the Wingless", drew me her interpretation of lizard!Bond. And holy babanas! (Ni No kuni reference!) This girl makes undignified, unholy, inhuman hounds escape my mouth. Constantly. Without trying. 
> 
> Take a look at her art here: http://maiacarlson.deviantart.com/art/007-for-Salios-387729088  
> Her fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/816184/chapters/1544211
> 
> **Important side note!**  
> This chapter, is actually half. Yep, -half- of the whole chapter. You get the other piece tomorrow. *slinks off to the bunker*

8.

Eve was just about to fall into bed when her doorbell rang. She paused, one foot still outside her covers. A second after the first the bell rang again. And again, and again. She shot from bed, left hand grabbing the gun from her bedside table as she hurtled through the flat in shorts and a loose shirt. She took enough time to glance through the peephole, _empty_ , before turning the lock and wrenching open the door, gun raised. The alarm set against the wall behind her began to blare, no doubt sending a signal back to MI6.

The hallway was clear of bodies, only a weak scent of wet dog remaining. Whomever had been so adamantly ringing her bell was long gone. She frowned and glanced down. Her tail stiffened, and the length of her ears pressed back against her skull.

A pale blue box, elegantly tied with white ribbon and dotted with drops of flesh blood, sat before her toes. Her eyes fell to the simple white card tucked under one length of ribbon. Eve glanced up and down the hall again before dropping down into a squat and tugging the card free.

In precise font were the words,

 

**_Consider this your first day's interest._ **

 

There was a local number in the bottom corner; likely a payphone or a burner phone. Eve carefully opened the box, gun still at the ready and ears cocked, listening. White tissue paper lined the box and she peeled it away carefully. Her stomach roiled and she froze.

Carefully arranged among a bed of crumpled tissue paper was the length of a very familiar tail.

\-----------------

Eve gently tugged the entirety of the box and its gruesome content into her flat and relocked the door before heading to the security box. She pressed the intercom button and waited, eyes trained on the ‘present’ filling the entrance to her flat.

“Agent Moneypenny, report.” The Q-branch tech on the other end of the line sounded sleepy, but aware.

“I need you to patch me through to M, immediately.”

\------------------------------

Eve leant against the doorframe between her kitchen and the flat’s entrance, eyes hovering over the agents filling the space. M, and Tanner stood beside her. Both had hard eyes as they watched the team work.

The tail most definitely belonged to Q. The pure black colouring, rare colour mutation for England, matched his hair and pelt. With the arrival of the TSS techs, the drops of blood had confirmed it. Tanner was rather green, which clashed horribly with his light brown colouring. Were it not for her ears, pressed tightly to her skull, M would have been the epitome of dangerous calm.

Their Quartermaster was new, and young, but not weak. He hadn’t been trained against torture or interrogation, not yet. MI6 had hoped to make use of his anonymity until then, which may have just resulted in the largest breach of security in MI6 over the course of a decade. The Silva incident had involved live agents, yes, but not a branch head. And certainly not one who could literally destroy half the world ten minutes out of sleep and still in bed. He hadn’t been facetious when he’d told Bond he could do more damage in bed, wearing his pajamas, and before his first cup of tea than Bond could with over a year in the field.

It was a sobering thought.

“I said **_move!_** ” The snarled command caught the trio’s attention. Bond stood just outside the doorway to Eve’s flat, chest heaving. His pale eyes stared down at the box, taking in the curled, detached appendage and the remnants of their Q’s poignant fear-scent. The backs of his hands were shifting between tanned human flesh to thick scales and back, his neck a solid mass of black plating up to his chin. His dark, forked tongue flicked out, scented the air, and retreated into the hollow of his mouth. Bond looked up and met Eve’s eyes.

Her ears were pinned back, tail a quivering line around one thigh. She had gotten a nose-full of Falk’s fear-scent upon opening the box, and it had left her shaken. She tucked her arms closer and clutched her sides.

Bond stepped around the techs and made his way to the group. His usually pristine suit was wrinkled. Likely he had only just fallen into bed when he’d gotten the call. He nodded to M and Tanner before opening his arms and taking Eve in. She tucked her head under his chin and soaked up Bond’s strength. His voice was a hissing rumble against her ear as he spoke.

_“Where is he.”_

M pursed her lips. “We have a team on standby to track the number they provided. As of yet, we cannot ascertain if his kidnappers know Q is MI6, the Quartermaster, or just an unlucky young man.” At Bond’s hiss she barked at him. “Agent, now is not the time to _give me lip._ ” Bond snapped his mouth shut, though his neck plates shifted. “Somehow they knew to send the, _package_ ,” the word was snarled and Eve flinched, “to Miss Moneypenny’s flat. That fact alone leans toward them knowing who Q is.”

“He tends to order take-away from his phone a fair bit, Sir.” Eve’s once firm voice was a whisper from Bond’s chest. “He’s a bit directionally challenged too. I believe h-he may have used his GPS to get here the first time ‘round. Maybe that’s how they knew?”

M fastened a firm glare onto Eve. “You and I will be discussing this breach of security after we re-acquire our Quartermaster. Do I make myself clear?” Eve nodded. “Good. Bond,” the reptile stiffened to attention as best he could, “you’re on point.”

Bond nodded, he was ready.

\-----------------------

Falk whimpered and tried in vain to find comfort against the cold floor. The burning pain in his lower back, in the stump of what was once his tail, meant any position felt wrong. His captors had the sense to at least sanitize his wound and leave him a blanket before taking Falk’s tail and walking out. The cats and dog had laughed at him, while the snake’s hands had stroked over his naked back a few more times before leaving.

Falk’s tears had run out and only the occasional chitter escaped him. He wanted to go home. Falk clutched the filthy blanket tighter and whimpered.

\---------------------

“In position,” Bond murmured, staring at the grubby door leading down into the basement apartment. His tail lashed angrily behind him. A traced phone call had confirmed that Q’s kidnappers did not in fact know who he was. They had abducted the chinchilla with the intent to ransom him off at a hefty sum. M had immediately given Bond orders that the extraction was his highest priority. She had also, without once looking at him and speaking as though they were merely discussing the weather, commented that it would be a terrible shame if there was no one to interrogate. Bond had tucked away his vicious smile, said his perfunctory, ‘yes mum’ and headed out. He stood waiting, finger twitching against his trigger guard.

_“Acknowledged, commence operation.”_

With a vicious kick, Bond tore through the door jam and pushed his way inside. Less than a moment later, shouting angrily, a catamount darted into view from halfway down the hall. The feline’s eyes widened at the sight of him; two hundred plus pounds of black-throated _pissed off_ lizard. And a gun, though really the gun was less a threat than the massive reptile out for blood. The feline cat yowled and darted back into the room he’d come from. Bond growled and swung into the room to his right. A clawed hand wrapped around the wrist of Bond’s outstretched gun-hand. He braced his right foot and kicked off with his left. The movement dropped the agent’s considerable weight onto his assailant. The man, _cat_ his scent said, hissed and lashed out with his other paw. The tips of the cat’s claws caught Bond’s cheek, where his scales had yet to protect. Blood spattered the cat’s face and Double-Oh-Seven growled. He ducked his head, his blonde hair shifting into sharp juts of bone plating. With an upward thrust from both feet and tail, he slammed his armored head into the cat’s jaw.

The shift of dislocated bone was satisfying.

Bond turned and at the same time pushed away the feline. His right hand came up and fired off two rounds. The first one caught the man in the throat, the second impacting his chest over his heart. The cat dropped with a gurgle. Bond was across the room before his target took his last breath.The space was small, though the remnants of a wall across the center hinted that it had once been two separate rooms. It was decorated with old furniture: two chairs, a chesterfield, and a coffee table that had seen better days. The windows were blacked out and boarded over and were it not for the weak, yellowed light from the ceiling fixture the room would have been black.

The agent, head cocked, tongue scenting the air, slipped through the far doorway into a grubby kitchen. It, like the living room, was sparsely decorated and screamed of ill and disuse. The agent froze, breath slow and steady in the quiet room.

_Creak..._

Bond ducked. The tips of five razor sharp claws dragged across the back of his headplate rather than across his spine. A thick, furred arm wrapped around his throat and tugged the agent back. Once again the double-oh was thankful for his species’ defense mechanism. The feline may have been large and powerful but his grip wasn’t strong enough to crush Bond’s armor.

His left hand shifted, fingers becoming wickedly sharp talons. Talons that he then drove through the width of his attacker’s forearm. The tips of his claws clacked as they impacted the plating against his throat. Double-Oh-Seven ducked down and forward, he caught himself on his left foot, though his attacker went over and onto his back. There was a wet sucking sound as his talons ripped free of the feline’s arm, barely heard over the man’s screaming. With another step and a slash of his hand Bond tore out the man’s throat.

The reptile stepped over the still twitching body, nimbly avoiding the growing blood pool, and into the hallway. To his right was a staircase down to what could only be a sub-basement. He caught a flash of brown fur and jeans as a man scrambled into the door closest to the stairs, slamming it behind him. Bond hissed, mixed parts pleased at how quickly this mission was going, and annoyed at how little time and opportunity he had to make these men pay for taking his Quartermaster. His tail lashed side to side and he dropped closer to the floor, tongue scenting.

There were two doors to the left of the stairs, presumably a bedroom and a bathroom, or a combination of the two. A quick click had the Walther’s mag dropping free; a glance down followed by a quick twist of one wrist had the mag sliding back into its slot. He had enough shots to finish this. And if not, well, he had hands for a reason.

Adrenaline pumping, breathing steady, he fell upon the first door, nudging it open with the barrel of his gun. Bathroom. There was another door in the washroom, against the wall and to his right. A vicious smirk split Bond’s scaled face. He darted in, rattled the handle, and stepped back out. Three steps took him down to the next door.

_Three, two, one..._

His foot snapped the door free of its frame, the lock flying off in a splinter of wood. There was a startled yelp from the next room. In one quick movement the double-oh snapped up his hands snapped up and fired off a round. The man’s startled yelp was cut off by one bullet to his thigh. He fell, howling, and scrambled back as best he could. One hand clutched his thigh in an attempt to stem the gush of blood.

The man, _dog_ , whimpered and stared up at Bond through wide eyes. His ears quivered against his head, tail tucked between his legs. His feat-scent was quickly overwhelming everything else, and more than ever the agent wanted the time to make them appreciate just how fucked they were.

“Don’t kill me, man! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It wasn’t my idea to take the kid! Really!” The canine sobbed, free hand stretched out as an ineffective shield against Bond’s advance. “Didn’t mean no harm! I’m sorry!” Bond snarled wordlessly. The canine whimpered and flinched back. “He’s downstairs! It was all Marty’s idea, man! Marty’s who you want! He’s down there right now! Please! Don’t kill me!”

He wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon, which meant he’d either be dead by the time Bond had secured Q, or would be in the hands of the agents following behind. Staying to make an impression wasn't an option, not if another of this group was already ahead, with Q. The thought of what, exactly, this _Marty_ might have, or might _be_ , doing made his plates flare. Bond hissed and flexed the claws of his left hand, “move, and you won’t leave here alive, understand me?”

The canine whimpered and dropped his outstretched hand to clench it around his wound. The shot hadn’t nicked anything fatal, as far as the reptile could tell. But leg wounds did bleed profusely. With a hiss, the double-oh backed out of the room and descended the stairs. He kept his ears trained, both incase the canine was _very_ stupid, or more than a single soon-to-be-dead-man was waiting ahead.

The basement was unfinished and smelled of stale piss and mold. The stairs were closed in, heavy wooden beams closing off the space between each. This meant there wouldn't be any hands reaching through the slats to pull his feet out. Or stab him, whichever. To either side thin sheet rock hemmed him in. While this blocked the line of sight from would-be attackers, it blocked Bond's as well. Though it looked mostly unused, the basement was well lit by bare bulbs suspended from ceiling struts. Bond quickly cleared the room before heading down to the opposite end. A door was set against one wall; a large, heavy, steel thing that had seen better days. At one point it had likely led to a root cellar or the kind of oven used in crematoriums. A morbid thought, and a little out of place for the kind of neighbourhood the house was in, but there all the same. London had been razed to the ground and built up again enough times that either option was possible.

The door was ajar and Bond shoved it the rest of the way open with the toe of his shoe. Light flooded the room. Bond froze, breath caught in his throat.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half, as promised. I'm wondering; what did you all think of the fighting? It's been a while and I'd like to know.  
> I'm still a terrible person and only moderately apologetic about it.

9.

Falk whimpered. His face was pressed uncomfortably into the cobblestone. Thankfully his captors had taken his previous injuries into account and avoided further damaging either his left hand or the left side of his face. Now though, he’d have matching scars on either cheek. The blanket they’d left him was tangled around his thighs and arse, creating a crude covering for his lower bits. His tail-stub was wrapped within the confines of the grubby blanket as well, which was his main concern. It just wouldn’t do for MI6 to come to his rescue only for him to die of infection later on.

_Right, brain, stop with working out alternate death scenarios, thanks._

The light _flick flick_ of the snake’s tongue against the back of Falk’s neck made him jerk to the side. He didn’t get far. One of the man’s long hands was wrapped around the chinchilla's right wrist. He'd forced the arm behind and up against the young man's back. Every breath was torture, each swell of his chest tugged on the strained joint. He couldn’t move without dislocating his arm from its socket, and the bastard knew it.

“Sssso pretty, hmm, ssshould have kept you for mysssssself.” A flat face pressed itself into the pebbled skin below Falk’s trapped arm. Tepid breath fanned across his chilled flesh and it took every ounce of Falk's considerable restraint not to say 'fuck it' and try to run, even if the attempt _would_ cause a new and not previously experienced level of pain. A few weeks on light duties would be monumentally better than..well...whatever the sick fuck was planning.

Falk was infinitely grateful for whomever had decided to play with fireworks in the house. It meant that snake-face, who's hand had been steadily climbing the bare flesh of the chin's left thigh, sat back with a snarl. The hacker resisted the urge to sigh in relief, or sob, or maybe bite the fucker's ankle. _Yeah, that would show 'em!_ Probably not, but he would feel better about being kidnapped and losing his tail for a few seconds. There was a series of thumps and yells, followed by quiet.

A moment of near silence passed, then another.

The sound of splintering wood reached Falk. He twitched, alarmed. A yelp, cut off by the crack of a gun firing. Muffled yells followed by unnerving silence. Finally realising that not all was right, Falk's captor released his arm and stood to face the door.

The chinchilla resisted the urge to skitter away, instead tucking his abused arm to his chest. He couldn't exactly run past the asshole; snakes were notoriously quick. Even if he managed it, whomever was doing the shooting was likely to take aim at the hacker and later on ask questions.

It wasn't ideal, but Falk's best bet was to stay where he was, for now.

His captor darted forward to shut the door, leaving only a slice of light to filter in, and turned. His pale face was set in a mask of rage. He fell upon Falk, hissing and snarling. The tech yelped and barked as cool hands grabbed his arms. He managed to swipe one clawed hand across his attacker's face. The man yelped and shifted back. Falk had enough room to break the hold on his left wrist with a twist and a jerk. He scrambled backwards, finding the wall across from the door. He couldn't run from the inevitable fight, but at least having the wall to his back gave him one less angle to defend from.

The serpent hissed at him, one hand clutching his face, over his cheek and eye. Blood poured from the wound and for once, Falk was _very_ happy for the mandatory self defense MI6 insisted upon.

He hissed again, words mangled and twisted by his thin, forked tongue; his tone was low and venomous. "You'll pay for that, whore! I'm going to gut you, fuck you til you die, and then eat you raw."

_Oh, well then, wasn't **that** something to look forward to._

Falk flinched back as the snake dropped the hand clutching his face. Four deep gouges crossed his features, from the outside corner of his right eyebrow, down and over the eye, to split the tight skin making up one slit nostril. The eyelid was sunken and shredded, the orb underneath simply gone. The chin swallowed and stood, shakily. This wouldn't go well.

His guess was right: the snake _was_ fast. Before Falk could do more than raise an arm, his left unfortunately, the serpent had him back on his knees. Falk bit back a yelp as his arm was twisted up and behind him, again. _Really not a fan of this! Me no likey the pain!_ His right hand came up to bat at the snake only to be slapped away. The man's other hand sunk into Falk's hair and grasped the strands in a harsh grip. The chin latched onto his wrist and chittered, it _hurt!_

The hand holding his hair jerked back, baring Falk’s throat. He chittered, partially in anger but mostly in fear. Even wounded - actually, _because_ he was wounded, the serpent’s face was twice as terrifying. Gore painted one side of his face entirely, droplets of blood gathering at his chin only to grow bulbous and heavy. One detached and dropped to splatter across Falk’s bared, pale throat. He chittered again, the feel of hot blood rolling down his neck wasn’t a comfortable one and the sour scent wafting from the serpent's open mouth wasn’t helping either.

“Oh, I’m going to _enjoy_ thissssss.” His mouth split wide, revealing two massive upper fangs and two rows of razor sharp lower teeth. Falk squeaked and jerked back.

_Crack!_

The snake drew back with a snarled roar, contorted into something unrecognizable by his shifted face and throat. He turned towards the door, dragging Falk upright by his hair as much as his twisted arm. The Quartermaster bit back a scream as the bones in his shoulder shifted; not quite out of place but fucking _close._ He panted and sunk his teeth into his lower lip, feeling the already present tear split apart again. Blood spilled from under his teeth and rolled down his chin. Like on his captor, the drops coalesced into one thick droplet before detaching. The droplet spattered against his chest and continued to roll.

Bond's stood in the doorway, his muscled bulk casting a shadow over the two men inside.

 _Oh dear god_ , thought Falk’s libido _, no man should be this fucking gorgeous when pissed, it isn’t fucking **fair**._ There was a mild stutter, mentally, before: _I wonder what sex would be like with him looking like **that**._ Falk promptly attempted to shake his head to rid himself of the dirty ( _delicious)_ thought. _Bad brain! Bad! Less thinking with the lower head, more thinking with the upper!_ His inner monologues were going to get him killed one day. Maybe today, who knew.

One side of Bond’s face was marked with blood, already beginning to dry and flake off atop thick scales. His features were still mostly human, though his cheeks and chin were dotted with thick patches of scales. His head, from what Falk could see, was a mass of thick, bony plating. His neck, a deep, light-consuming black, was coated in similar overlapping ridges. The agent’s tail lashed behind him, the ridges of bone shifting, sharp spikes catching the light and all but glowing. Bond’s left hand, a mass of overlapping scales and long, vicious talons, was dyed red. Droplets would occasionally drip from the pointed tips when he clacked the digits together.

The double-oh stepped further into the room. His Walther was held steady in his right hand and aimed at the snake, which also meant it was aimed at Falk. The chin swallowed, which in itself was difficult given the painful angle of his head. Bond’s eyes, two icy orbs bisected by thin slivers of black, flicked from the wounded serpent’s face, to Falk’s throat, and back.

Nothing escaped his gaze.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me.” _Right, yep, there goes any ability I had to withhold an erection. Thanks, Bond._ The Quartermaster shifted, partially to ease the angle of his neck and the force exerted on his arm, but also to ineffectually hide what might quickly become a problem. 

Apparently snake-face didn’t like that. His hand constricted around Falk’s wrist and the chinchilla felt his bones _shift_. The hacker managed a choked gurgle of protest before the angle of his arm changed. Still on the edge of a dislocated shoulder, Falk scrambled onto his toes. He swayed there, previously unimagined pain coursing through his shoulder and down his spine. Though not quite capable of speech, he managed a garbled, wordless scream. It ended with a sob.

To make matters worse, the precariously tangled blanket shifted a bit. Even though not getting dead, and after that, not having his shoulder dislocated, were the highest of Falk’s priorities, having the double-oh he not-so-secretly fancied seeing his bits during a rescue wasn’t how Falk wanted things to go. He wiggled slightly, toes cramping as he tried in vain to both steady himself and widen his stance to hold up the tangle of scratchy cotton. No such luck. The blanket dropped down another inch and he whimpered. _Fuck!_ Any lower and Bond wouldn’t be needing to ‘wine and dine’ him before getting to see his naughty bits. Falk’s brian automatically, being a metaphorical _dick_ , shifted to mimic the voice of Comic-Book-Guy from the Simpsons, _‘Worse. Date. Ever.’_

“I’m fairly ssssssure,” was hissed against Falk’s left ear, “the rulesss sssstate ‘firsssst come firsst ssssserve’ for prey, no?” A forked tongue flickered against the tense curve of one dark ear. Falk screwed his eyes shut and bit down into his lip again.

_Don’t scream, don’t scream..._

“Prey, yesss.” There was a barely perceptible lisp to Bond’s voice now. “But _he_ issn’t prey.” A  dry chuckle, “you are.”

Falk cracked one eye open to watch Bond. He was terrified, how could be not be? But he’d worked with the double-oh enough to know that tone.

Bond, the glorious bastard, was stalling. He had a _plan._ A _fucking **plan**!_ The reptile’s arctic eyes found Falk’s pained stare and he - _oh dear god, he_ **_didn’t_** _! The wanker just fucking **winked** at me! _  Falk’s mind went into overdrive. _Plan, plan, plan, plan, pla- **plan!**_ _That’s it!_ The Quartermaster swallowed, painfully, and with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, winked ‘acknowledged’ in morse code back at Bond. The reptile’s toothy grin was terrifying.

And arousing, let’s not forget that. _Dammit libido!_

Falk counted silently: _one...two...three!_

Using what little leverage he had, the chin thrust upwards and back with his toes. His comparatively light weight was surprising enough that his captor stumbled back a step, dropping Falk’s arm down slightly.

_Pop!_

A freshly freed, terribly pissed off chinchilla landed on snake-face’s, well...face... He chittered, dug his miniscule claws into the already damaged flesh of the man’s eye socket, and _jumped_. He landed in an ungraceful sprawl behind the serpent, slamming into the wall with a squeak.

_Bang!_

Bond’s gun discharged and the back of snake-face’s head disappeared in a plume of brain bits and bloody mist. Unsurprisingly, all of which coated Falk. The slightly-concussed chin could do little more than lean against the cool stone wall, suck in deep breaths, and half-heartedly glare at his double-oh.

_Right, not sure to mark this under ‘first date’. And if I do, which column does it belong under? ‘Failed miserably’, or ‘went surprisingly well’?_

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is more than double the average chapter length at 4,841 words. But aside from being exhausted and uninterested in doing more than a cursory glance through, I figured why not?  
> So here you are! And as previously mentioned, if anyone has any interest in trying their hand at fan-anything...ing... for this work, I'd be happier than a boardwalk of clams....And on that terrible joke-y note, I'm off to bed.

10.

Falk’s front paws grasped at the stone underfoot. Blood and bits of greymatter dotted his fur, and there was a growing puddle of red that was inching towards him. The Quartermaster swallowed and pressed further against the wall. His fur, much cleaner where he’d landed against the wall, flattened. A soft sound escaped his throat and Falk huddled in tighter, head tucked down between his paws, ears flat. He just wanted this all to be over. All he wanted was to go home, have a nice bath, maybe eat or simply guzzle tea, and not come out from his bed-nest for a week. Or two (he wasn’t picky).

A big, warm hand slid under his belly and another carefully cupped his behind, avoiding the stump of his tail. Falk squeaked and flailed, only to find himself lifted, paws scrabbling, and held against a warm, firm chest. His nose twitched, taking in carefully applied spicy cologne, sweat, and the scent of warm scales. The rodent chittered and wiggled. The hand on his belly moved up to his chest, attempting to hold him still. Falk nipped at the closest finger and pushed the hand away. The shuffle of hands resulted in the chin lying on his back in Bond’s palm. The agent was staring at him with a mixture of amusement, worry, and...something else.

Falk blinked, flapped his ears, and chittered. He stretched out his right front leg, paw splayed, towards Bond’s face. The agent replied by lifting one dirty finger, recently returned from its taloned state, and pressing it against the pads of Falk’s paw. The corners of his eyes crinkled and Falk slumped.

Everything would be just fine.

\-----------

Bond proceeded to tuck Falk into the folds of his jacket and carry the Quartermaster from the house. The young man-turned-chinchilla kept his head down and pressed against one of Bond’s rather comfortable pectorals. It was childish, but he’d rather not see his kidnappers, or what was left of them.

He was startled from the half-doze he’d managed during the trek by another pair of hands, clad in latex and _cold_ , wrapping around his body and attempting to pull him from the confines of Bond’s coat.

Falk barked and lashed out with his hind legs. He hissed and scrabbled, claws hooking into Bond’s expensive shirt. The fabric tented as the hands pulled at his middle. His chittering grew in pitch until the hands were yanked back and the folds of Bond’s jacket were wrapped around him again, holding him tightly to the agent. Over the frantic beating of his own heart, Falk could hear the low, open-mouthed hiss that escaped Bond. He chittered, frame wracked with shivers that Bond sought to quell with the gentle stroking of fingers through the fabric of his suit jacket.

“Touch him again, and I’ll keep thosse handsss asss a ssssouvenir. Are we clear?” The lisp returned to Bond’s words, though Falk wasn’t entirely sure if the man had reverted from reptile to human since exterminating the last threat. His tone brooked no argument and the subtle tensing of muscle beneath Falk’s paws spoke volumes as to how prepared the agent was to make good on the threat.

Falk chittered, removed the claws of one foot from Bond’s shirt and gently patted his chest. The low hiss Bond had instinctually continued halted. The hand carefully stroking Falk’s fur through the jacket hesitated before gently squeezing Falk’s body and resuming its careful up and down strokes.

“W-we need to check him over before s-sending him home. Ah-” The man, from Medical it seemed, was determined to do his job, even if it meant facing down a black-throated Bond.

The chin pulled back from where he’d snuggled his face into Bond’s chest and tugged at the open collar of Bond’s shirt, peering inside. _Yep, that’s one pissed-off lizard._ His throat was indeed a flattering shade of black. Several patches of thick scales had appeared and Falk carefully patted one with his paw. Bond cut off mid-reply. The grip on the rodent’s body loosened and the hand paused its stroking again.

The chin, feeling bold, wiggled and pressed his way upwards until he could climb from the jacket and between Bond’s shirt and skin. The other male’s scent was a bit stronger here, with the chin’s nose all but pressed to his skin. The Quartermaster chittered and buffed his cheek against a patch of scales. Bond gave a pleased hiss and tucked his left forearm under Falk’s curled form from outside the jacket.

Again, Falk shifted. This time he wiggled until he could pop his head out from the warm cocoon of Bond’s clothing to stare at the Medic. Young, male, canine. Falk sniffed the air, testing his own instincts. While the medic was canine, his scent didn’t spark the same panic he’d experienced during his captivity. It was mollifying to know that merely being around another dog wouldn’t send him into a chittering panic attack. The chinchilla wriggled into a better angle and pressed a paw to Bond’s chest, looking up at the agent with a chitter.

Pale blue eyes and bushy blonde brows furrowed. Falk chittered and pushed back a bit from the agent, loosening his hold. He cocked his head towards the medic and then back at Bond, hinting. The agent’s mouth pursed into a thin line, eyes flicking between Falk and the medic. A second later he sighed and gently unwrapped the folds of cloth from around the Quartermaster’s frame. Falk chittered softly and patted Bond’s chest again. He turned and regarded the medic with cool eyes.

Even as a chinchilla and just over a foot long, without his tail, and weighing in somewhere around the three-hundred gram mark, Falk could intimidate. It was a skill he’d worked on his entire life, being so tiny in either form wasn’t productive to a bully-free lifestyle.

The medic led Bond and Falk over to a parked ambulance and climbed in. Bond followed, one hand cupped protectively over Falk’s tiny form. The medic pulled a collapsible table from one wall and secured it. “If you wouldn’t mind...”

Falk glanced up at Bond, who nodded and bent until Falk could easily hop from inside his shirt and onto the table. The chinchilla’s tiny claws clattered against the stainless steel and he walked a few paces. His eyes roamed, taking in the medic preparing a stethoscope, sanitizing wipes, and a pair of clean tweezers. Falk stretched, back claws scrabbling. He shook, hoping to dislodge some of the filth that was weighing down his fur. No such luck. He grumbled, whiskers twitching. It only took a few steps to reach the medic, where Falk sat on his haunches, waiting patiently.

“Ah, alright, so I need to take a look at your, er, tail...” Falk heaved a sigh and turned so that his stump was bared. One of Bond’s massive hands, which were even larger due to Q’s current state -though in both human and animals forms Bond’s hands and fingers were particularly thick- came to rest on the table beside his head. The chin reached out and tugged the man’s hand in and used it as a pillow. “I’m just going to take a look, make sure nothing was ripped or needs serious medical attention.”

Cool fingers pushed back the fur to either side of Falk’s stub and he squeaked, jumping a little. Bond’s fingers clenched and the chin hastily patted the man’s hand. _It’s fine! It’s fine! His hands are just **really bloody cold**_. The EMT kept up a steady stream of medical chatter under his breath as he inspected the remains of the amputated limb. He carefully sanitized the stump, to which Falk actually leapt up and away from, chittering. _Cold!_

Bond hissed. Falk crept back into place, terribly embarrassed. His blush would have been from tip to tail had there been any visible skin.

The rest of the check went quickly; the medic carefully bandaged the stump and took a picture on his phone. Bond glanced up at the sound of the shutter, eyes narrowing as he took in the mobile. Q chittered softly, one paw resting on the back of the man’s hand, eyeing the medic. A few gestures later and the medic turned the phone around so Falk could see the screen. As predicted was the photo he’d taken of Falk.

The chinchilla blinked, staring at the photo. Irrationally, he attempted to turn and check his tail-stump himself, only to spin an unsteady circle and miss the stump entirely. Bond caught him and he huffed.

“Careful! Ah, as far as I can tell, it was a clean split. No bare bone either. Though, if you look here,” he gestured at the screen, zooming in on the flattened fur at the base of Falk’s tail. “You’ll see the skin isn’t bunched.” Falk frowned and chittered up at the EMT, not understanding. “Ah, well, it’s a bit awkward to explain, but you more or less had more tail than you thought.” Falk didn’t respond and continue to stare at the medic, making the man swallow nervously. “Okay, so, think of it this way; your tailbone, which makes up the length of your tail as it leaves your body, was actually a lot longer than it seemed to be.

“Did you ever have discomfort lying on your back, or sitting for any length of time?” Falk nodded slowly, brows furrowed, nose twitching. “Right, I think that might have been caused by a length of ingrown,” the chin pulled back, teeth bared in what would have been a horrified grimace, “bone...” The medic laughed uncomfortably and fiddled with the image a bit. “I think what happened is that it got caught somewhere inside as you grew, maybe from constant use of restrictive clothing, or bad posture, I don’t know, and when your tail was taken that bit of bone was pulled straight.” He made a swift jerking motion and Falk flinched slightly. Bond’s hand came up, pinky down on the table, and Falk stepped into the half circle of his thumb and fingers.

“The skin grew as it should have to accommodate the bone, but since that bit never extended outwards, it stayed bunched up at the base, here.” Again he flashed the image and Falk nodded, if only to get the mobile out of his face. Without prompting, the EMT deleted the photo, screen still facing the Quartermaster, and tucked it away. “Basically, this means that, if you were a short-tailed chinchilla you wouldn’t be missing any tail at all, not really.”

Falk’s eyes grew huge and he stared, mouth hanging open slightly.

“But since you’re a long-tailed, I think with the right antibiotics and medications you’ll regain a bit of length in no time. Just give it a while to settle in; the skin’ll be tight and the bones might feel inflamed. They aren’t used to being straight, eh?”

The medic bid them goodnight and left, supplies bundled up in a biohazard bag.

M replaced him smoothly, sliding into the vacated seat with her usual grace and cool expression.

Falk swallowed.

“I trust you are alright, Q?” The chin nodded and extracted himself from the comfortable stability of Bond’s hand to stand on his own. “I realize you’ve had a trying evening, so I’ll make this quick.” Falk nodded again, paws unconsciously rubbing. “You’re taking, at the very least, a week for recovery.”

Falk stood on his hind legs and gave a very indignant squeak.

M held up a hand, “This is as much for your health as for the department’s. You need time to physically, mentally, and emotionally heal. And we need the time to deal with this mess and to correct some blindingly obvious security flaws we hadn’t noticed until now.” He sat back down, huffing. “Agent Double-Oh-Seven will be accompanying you home.” He stood again.” Sit _down_ , Q.” He sat. “Bond is one of the few operatives I would trust with your safety, and he’s already proven to have your well-being at the forefront of his mind. Besides,” she slanted a look at the blood-drenched agent sitting stony-faced across the examination table, “he’s fairly house-trained. And I’ve heard he can even cook.”

Bond grumbled something under his breath.

“Good. Now get out of my face and go get cleaned up. You _reek_.”

Falk could only chitter an affirmative before Bond snatched him up from the table and tucked the chinchilla back into his shirt on the opposite side. The _thump-thump_ of Bond’s heart and the gentle fingers smoothing his fur two layers of clothing away were quick to lul Falk into a deep slumber.

\---------------

As much as Bond wanted to drive his own car home, he couldn’t in good conscience abuse his leather seats with so much gore. The added non-issue of releasing Q from inside his shirt didn’t at all factor into his choice of having a vetted minion drive them to Q’s flat. That same minion got them through the front door, up the elevator, and into the flat -where she disarmed the security system and gave Bond a brief rundown on how to rearm and disarm the system- before returning to MI6. This left a gore-splattered Bond standing awkwardly in the small entryway of Q’s flat, holding a tiny, sleepy, Q.

Conscious of manners, not that he usually paid them any mind, Bond took off his shoes and socks using just his toes, and padded from the foyer into the tiny kitchen beyond. The chinchilla was still solidly unconscious beneath the layers of Bond’s shirt and jacket, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. His paws were barely noticeable, though his whiskers were tickling the agent’s chest just enough that he was glad for torture resistance training. He stepped through the kitchen, flipping on lights as he entered the living room. Two big chairs; one a massive egg-chair with piles of blankets, and what looked like a large bamboo cage suspended from the ceiling and holding a seat-shaped pillow. There was also a long and overstuffed couch off to one side. Other than the pillows arranged in a vaguely nest-like shape, the room was clean.

Bond had expected bare walls and stainless steel fixtures.

The only exception to the cozy atmosphere was a massive flat screen mounted to the far wall and an intricate shelving unit of dark material and red plexiglass housed what he assumed were gaming consoles. Bond continued on through, his fingers continuing to pet Q through his jacket. The first door he came across was a bathroom, then a linen closet, and finally the bedroom. There were another two doors, further down the hall, but for the time being the bedroom, and ensuite bathroom, were what he needed. Bond backed out from the bedroom, returned to the linen closet, and quickly filled his empty arm with as many dark towels as he could find and carry.

Q slept on.

He re entered the bedroom and shut the door behind him, repeating the process with the washroom door, turning the lock this time. The towels went into a pile on the countertop. Bond made to reach for the shower curtain only to stop. He looked down at the fuzzy head just visible through his open shirt and frowned. How the hell did one wash a chinchilla...? He wracked his brain, trying to think of _something_ only to come up empty. _Nothing for it then._

“Q...Hey, Q.” Bond gently jostled the Quartermaster with his supporting arm, feeling little paws flex against his skin before Q ducked his head and nuzzled in closer. Bond bit his lip, trying desperately not to coo at his ranking officer. “Come on now, Q, you and I both reek. I’m not sure about you, but I would _really_ like a shower.” The index finger on his right hand, one of the cleaner digits, found its way to the Q’s soft belly. It took some careful prodding, but Bond was eventually able to find the meat of the little body. There was a lot less of Q under all that fur than he’d thought. His finger began to rub, up and down, against Q’s belly until he got a response.

Q chittered and nuzzled Bond’s chest again, turning his head the opposite way to blink sleepy eyes up at him. His nose wiggled and he sneezed.

_Urge...to coo....rising..._

Q then yawned and sat up within Bond’s hold, blinking.

 _“Aww.”_  The word quickly trailed off into a pleased hiss before it could get out of hand, Bond’s cheeks already flushing under the coating of gore. Q didn’t help matters by tilting his head to the side. “Enough of that,” he swallowed and looked away, “how do I go about getting you cleaned up?”

Q was quiet for a moment, his brows furrowed, before his little paws began tugging at Bond’s jacket, his tiny body wriggling to escape his comfy cloth prison. The reptile helped Q along by putting out a hand for him to perch on. The chinchilla didn’t stop his tugging there, going as far as to find Bond’s pockets and attempt to peer inside. Knowing they couldn’t communicate any better than this game of ‘follow-the-leader’, Bond emptied his pockets onto the counter and set Q down.

The chin immediately fell upon Bond’s mobile, his tiny paws scrabbling as he pulled it a distance away and managed to unlock it using a combination of button presses that looked all too similar to a game of Twister. Getting the screen unlocked, Q jumped up with a squeak of triumph, and motioned for Bond to come closer. He pulled up a blank word document, the agent’s chest at his back, thick forearms caging him in.

**I can get wet, so long as I don’t get cold and that you dry me off completely afterwards.**

Bond wasn’t entirely certain how the boffin managed to underline the word -was that even an option on these phones?- but nodded in understanding.

**Right; I’d rather a warm shower than a bath. Not too warm, just above room temperature, please.**

Bond nodded and pulled away to turn the taps. He waited until it the thick stream from the main tap was warm and slightly steaming before returning to Q. The Quartermaster had written out directions and unwrapped his bandaging while Bond had been busy.

**Don’t turn on the fan. Don’t yank on my fur. Pick out what bits you can, but I’ll try to get the majority out with the shower head. Don’t. Dunk. Me.**

He leveled his best ‘disapproving Quartermaster’ look at Bond, who chuckled.

**Don’t use a lot of soap, and don’t grab me unnecessarily; you might pull out my fur. When you’re done washing and rinsing my fur, I need to be wrapped up to partially dry and stay warm. It isn’t a short process but you’ll also need to dry my fur with a hair dryer. I have one and a diffuser under the sink for just this reason. Put it on low, please, and don’t get too close or you’ll burn me.**

The list was surprisingly short, though the number of ‘don’ts’ were many.

“I think I can remember all that, Q.” Bond stood and Q scuttled around to watch him, head cocked to the side. His vision was vastly improved in his chinchilla form, thankfully. The agent was quick to take off his jacket and dress shirt, both getting tossed into the bin by the door. He emptied his trouser pockets before those too joined the growing bundle of clothing. He turned back to the Quartermaster to find the rodent facing away, ears flung forward. Bond smirked. “Q...” The chinchilla jumped, “I’m going to hop in the bath with you. Would you rather I keep my pants on, or...?”

He truly tried to keep the seductive tone from his voice, but it was too good an opportunity to miss.

Q squeaked and quickly jumped on the mobile, paws tapping something out. Bond peered over, **_KEEP YOUR BLOODY PANTS ON YOU UNREPENTANT KNOB HEAD_**.

“Right then, on they stay!” Bond quickly, though carefully, scooped Q up -much to the Quartermaster’s displeasure- and stepped into the deep tub. He sat carefully, tail curled to the left against his thigh and deposited the off-balance Q in the loose circle of his legs. Q was quick to hop up and out from the circle of muscular limbs. He faltered a bit, before his claws caught on the stickers applied to the bottom of the bath. Bon raised one brow, smirking, “whimsical ducks, Q? Are you trying to tell me that you would have preferred to be a waterfowl than a chinchilla?”

The look Q leveled him with could have peeled paint.

He stomped one tiny paw and barked angrily, right forepaw stabbing in the air at the hose and shower head. Bond chuckled and dutifully reached out, plucking the handle and removing it from the wall. He pulled a knob and the flow switched from the main tap to the showerhead. He pointed it down at the drain, away from both he and Q, until the stream warmed. The reptile then held the shower head out at an angle beside Q.

The Quartermaster chittered in what could have been thanks before he ducked his head, flung his ears forward, and jumped in. Immediately the spray began to remove the red from his dark fur. As Q ran in and out, shaking his body and attempting to wash his fur with his paws where he could reach, Bond would pluck out pieces of greymatter and bone, tossing each with precision into the garbage before Q could see.

Before long they were left with several spots of dried blood and...other things...the water alone couldn’t banish. Bond switched the water back to the tap, hung the hose, and grabbed the bottle of shampoo from the corner. He flipped the lid and sniffed, pleasantly surprised at the faint scent. No wonder Q always smelled like Bergamot; it was in his shampoo as well as his drinks.

Q hopped close, eyeing Bond’s legs again, uncertain and adorable in the way only a half-drowned rat could be. He sneezed and shook his head, watching Bond for a clue. The blonde untucked his legs and slid down a bit. His feet flattened against the bottom of the tub, thighs pressed together. With careful hands he reached out and grasped Q, the chinchilla’s paws clenching around his fingers. Slowly, Bond brought his Quartermaster up and placed Q on the flat planes of his stomach. Q froze, whiskers twitching, looking unsure.

“You’re not about to hurt me, Q. Get comfortable while I grab the soap, hmm?”

Q jumped at the rumble of Bond’s voice under his paws and chittered softly. He loped a few steps to sit just above the agent’s naval, barely below his sternum. Hands cradling a dab of soap, Bond returned his attention to Q and began to carefully apply the creamy liquid. It didn’t take much to coat his tiny body. Bond applied the soap to the snarled bits first, massaging the soap and freeing up the fur. When the worst was taken care of, he applied what was left to the rest of Q, though his fingers avoided the stump of Q’s tail. The chinchilla behaved for most of Bond’s washing, though when the agent’s fingers dipped low on his belly he was met with a sharp snarl and the scratch of tiny claws on flesh as Q fled. Bond hissed apologetically and moved on.

“Right then, you’re just about done. That should probably sit for a moment or three to work at the last bits stuck in there. Mind if I...?” The dried blood covering Bond’s skin had begun to itch fiercely with the rising humidity. He desperately wanted to shuck his pants and wash himself, but didn’t want to make Q uncomfortable.

The chin paused from where he had been massaging the soap into his lower belly, grumbling to himself. He looked up at Bond and tilted his head. It took a moment for him to catch up, and quickly chittered before jumping from Bond’s stomach. He landed rather ungracefully, paws skittering to find purchase on the porcelain of the tub. He hopped to the other end of the tub, not quite close enough to touch the stream of water but far enough to give Bond some privacy.

The agent’s heart warmed a bit at that, and he made quick work of his pants. He bundled the fabric and tossed that into the bin as well. He sincerely hoped the Quartermaster had a pair of oversized pajama pants, or at least a robe he could borrow. Bond sincerely doubted that Q would be too pleased with him walking about naked.

Unlike Q, thankfully, Bond didn’t have to worry about cleaning out his fur before he could shift. He took advantage of that fact; body growing harder and smaller, talons growing to replace fingers and his face lengthening and darkening. Plating covered his frame; thick ridged ranging between pale yellow and honey. His tongue slipped out, scenting the air, and his eyelids flicked as he took in his surroundings from the new perspective.

_Tsk, should have put the stopper in **before** shrinking, idjit._

Bond stood on four legs and scuttled from the far end of the tub to where Q sat, paws rubbing his fur. He jumped as Bond came level with him, ears twitching straight up in surprise. Bond hissed and jerked his head towards the rubber stopper just above them. He couldn’t reach, but Q likely could; especially if he used Bond as a stepstool. It didn’t take long to relay that fact, and soon Q was jumping up and down on the white rubber disk to push it into place.

It was absolutely **_adorable_**.

The agent hissed his thanks and marched forward talons clicking. He slid under the flow from the tap, water already pooling around his feet. It took considerably less time to wash his scales than Q’s fur. Bond shook his head and made to head for his original spot across the bath when he found his path blocked by a sopping wet rodent.

Q pointed with one paw and barked.

Bond cocked his head to the side and hissed.

Q rolled his eyes and hopped closer, one paw landing on the agent’s muzzle lightly while the other went to Bond’s left front leg. He watched as Q carefully scraped away a mass of red and grey goo from between two plates. He’d known something had been there, it _was_ rather uncomfortable, but hadn’t been able to reach it himself. The problem would have sorted itself out as he shifted back to human and that would have been enough.

Bond’s already warm heart, at the sight of Q chittering at him and carefully digging out bits of their enemy from between his armor, grew in size to encompass the entirety of his chest. If he hadn’t already been attached to Q, with a growing interest in being around the younger man long-term, he would have right then and there.

The double-oh’s tongue flicked out and carefully touched the edge of one of Q’s ears. The Quartermaster didn’t jump this time, though he did turn to watch Bond. He hissed gratefully and Q chittered back, his paw carefully patting the point of Bond snout. The agent skittered away a few steps and watched as Q rinsed his fur of the soap. He rolled in the low water to rinse his back, wincing as he banged his tail once, and ducked under the tap a few more times before shaking himself and standing beside Bond.

Then it was a quick matter of Bond shifting back, completely naked, and plucking a startled Q from the tub and wrapping him in a towel. The chinchilla barked at him, flustered, but didn’t do more than make himself comfortable, eyes averted. Bond wrapped a towel about his hips and knelt to retrieve the hair dryer. As warned, this part of the process took a fairly long time. Q was past the point of exhaustion, and the added warmth from the dryer meant he kept falling asleep standing up and pitching over to one side. Bond would catch him, right the chinchilla, and continue his drying.

When finally they finished, and Q was a lightly snoring pile of pitch black fur, the blonde picked up his Quartermaster, cradled the small form to his chest, turned out the lights, and tucked himself into Q’s comfortably worn bed. The duvet was thick and the sheets were soft. The pillows all smelt of Bergamot and Q, and Bond’s head began to spin a bit at the sensory overload. He made himself comfortable and then settled Q on his chest, one hand cradling the dark form.

“Sweet dreams, Q.”

Q chittered in his sleep and burrowed closer to his saviour.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, drowning in fluff. Not to be confused with fur, because Q is lacking that...and clothes...but then again, so is Bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very very sorry this took so long, guys. I was definitely at a loss at what to do with it, but I might have actually found an ending for this fic! Enjoy, and please leave comments!

Falk had a habit — beginning from when he’d been barely a few months old — of changing between forms in his sleep. It wasn’t terribly unusual, but was annoying and uncomfortable. More often than not, he’d go to sleep in his bed only to wake practically drowning in fabric. He didn’t usually switch from his animal form to human without warning, but it wasn’t unheard of. One doctor he’d seen when investigating the awkward switches had theorised that if Falk were to feel safe, especially at a subconscious level, it would make sense for his body to be comfortable enough to switch forms. Falk thought the man had been full of shit.

But now Falk was beginning to wonder if the doctor hadn’t been onto something after all.

Falk woke to the steady _thump-thump_ of a heartbeat and the gentle play of warm breath through the curls atop his head. A thick, warm arm was wrapped around his waist, palm and fingers curled gently around the jut of one hipbone. The skin below his cheek was sleek and hot and smelled vaguely of salt and something earthy. Head feeling pleasantly light and empty, Falk buffed his cheek against the skin and chirped happily. The arm tightened and he reciprocated with both of his own to either side of the broad chest he was using as pillow — and partially as a mattress. The tips of his fingers massaged dense back muscles in a ripple of finger falls — something of a specialty of his.

A wide yawn cracked Falk’s jaw and he quietly smacked his lips. His ears flopped back and forth and his tail, still sore but manageable, wiggled against the backs of his thighs. If only chinchillas could pur. Falk sighed and tucked his legs up, lean thighs clenching around his pillow’s thick, warm thigh. He chittered again and squirmed up a bit higher until he could nose at the underside of a wide jaw.

The rumbling chuckle that greeted him was a surprise, one Falk blamed on his sleep addled brain. The chin shot up onto his knees so fast his arms windmilled to keep him upright. From the burning heat across his nose and neck it was safe to assume he was flushed a dark red.

Bond smile up at the chinchilla from the mattress, lazy and sleep-warm. He hissed between thin pink lips and Falk’s blush intensified. “Good morning, Q.”

“G-g-good m-morning!” Falk squeaked in reply. He sputtered and, upon realizing that he was indeed as naked as the day he was born — minus some very missed fur —, began to gather up the blanket in hurried tugs.

Bond grabbed one corner of the blanket and Falk was left struggling uselessly amongst a sea of soft cotton. The reptile chuckled and sat up. He planted the fist holding the blanket his hip opposite Falk, and smiled gently. “Quartermaster, I’m all for bare skin but I can’t imagine you’d be much obliged if your reaction last night is any indication.”

It took Falk another moment of frantic tugging to understand. He squeaked, threw his hands up — and thus released the blanket —, and swathed his own naked form in the soft folds he’d accumulated. From within his incomplete cocoon the chinchilla glared at Bond, only his eyes, brows, and nose visible.

The older man chuckled and reached over to snag a pillow. He dropped the pillow over his crotch and released the blanket corner. Against Bond’s tan skin and broad frame the pillow looked obscenely small and Falk gulped at the enticing sight.

“As you’ve yet to scream and accuse me of the worst, I assume you remember what happened yesterday.”

Falk stiffened but nodded. “I remember most of it, though my memory is a bit hazy in spots.” Specifically what had happened to get them into his bed. He leant to one side of the mattress, tugging open the bedside drawer before rifling through. He retreated with a pair of glasses similar to his usual frames only rimmed in thin silver rather than black. Falk settled the blankets and carefully perched the frames on his nose, blinking at the change.

Bond nodded and shifted up to lean against the headboard, his unfairly toned stomach flexing with the movement. The chinchilla was left to awkwardly wrap himself in the last of the blanket — and quickly wipe at his mouth — before he plopped down to the right of Bond’s legs, facing the agent.

It seemed the rumours held some truth; the bare flesh of Bond’s inner thighs bore a smattering of multicoloured scales, as did his hips, thighs, and abdomen, up to the dip of his naval. His tail wasn’t as solid as Falk had thought though. The top and sides were still composed of dark scaled ridges, but from this distance he could see the multitude of small gaps between each layer that allowed the reptile a great deal of dexterity with the armoured limb. The underside was a mix of pale yellow and honey-coloured scales. With some effort and a thick swallow Falk kept from reaching out to feel the presumably soft underside with the tips of his fingers.

Bond frowned slightly and sucked in a breath, exhaling slowly and with purpose. “Where does your memory get hazy? I can, well, I can try to fill you in if you’d like.” He didn’t look all that eager.

Falk shook his head at the offer, not too excited at the prospect of reliving such a terrible day either. “I think I remember enough, thank you.” Though how they’d gotten from the bath to the bed he was still curious about.

The other man nodded and stayed quiet. Falk shivered as Bond’s pale eyes roamed across his bundled form. “Where do we go from here?”

The question caught Falk by surprise. He stared at the agent, blinking stupidly. “Ah, pardon?”

“From here, as in your bedroom. Where do we go?” The chinchilla’s brow furrowed and Bond sighed. He sat up and leant forward to slip one warm hand into the folds of the blanket wrapping and cupped Falk’s jaw. “Specifically, you and I.”

Falk’s only response was the dropping of his jaw and some rather unattractive sputtering.

Bond had the sense of mind to refrain from laughing outright, though he did smirk. “Q, relax. I’m not about to jump you. Well, at least not _now_.”

Falk squeaked at that.

Bond laughed and stroked the calloused pad of his thumb across the swell of one cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle for hands used to killing. A genuine smile pulled at the corners of Bond’s mouth and Falk’s cheeks flushed again. “It wasn’t a fluke that time in the range, Q. I do genuinely care.” He grinned sheepishly, an expression not often found in the double-oh repertoire. “Though I probably shouldn’t have stolen your treats.”

Falk glared at the agent and stuck out his tongue.

Obviously that wasn’t the smartest of decisions as Falk almost immediately found his tongue held between Bond’s surprisingly soft lips.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some loose ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so so SO sorry I left this for so long guys! Shit happened, fics happened, I'm running on no sleep, etc..  
> But, NEW CHAPTER!  
> I HAVE MY DEGREE!  
> I WENT TO ITALY AND SAW RUM! (fyi she's fucking adorable and her mum is awesome and her dad is a goddamn giant who cooks amazing food and there are Francesco's everywhere omfg and Rum is def. that ditzy, chesty, clutsy anime-girl we all love and oogle in shows.)  
> \--------  
> In other news, this here in the 'end' for Soft Belly. I'm sorry it took so long to get here and I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I have.  
> Your comments and kudos mean a lot to me, and if I could I'd send each and every one of you a massive hug to thank you for getting me through it.

It was several days before Falk and Bond returned to active duty. Presents were piled upon Falk’s desk along with several helium balloons and a literal box of treats. He eyed them only to look away innocently when Bond caught his attention. The reptile smirked knowingly but continued looking through the pile without comment.

Minions were gathered at his door, whispered back and forth, dispersing when he shot them looks only for a new huddle to form minutes later. It took Falk stomping over, tail bristled, and hissing at them to go do some bloody work for the Q-branch minions to finally get to work. Falk fell into his ridiculously comfortable chair with a sigh, wincing as he nudged his tail.

Bond sat across from him, legs crossed, elbow on an armrest of his chain and his chin in one palm. He stared at Falk with pale, slitted eyes, an affectionate smile pulling his lips. He said nothing, prompting Falk to stare him down for a few moments before he grew annoyed.

“What?” he snapped.

Bond shrugged, “Nothing really, just looking at my mate.”

Falk stiffened and flushed, tail standing straight. He chittered and looked around, hands fiddling with the hem of his cardigan. Right, mates. That wasn’t something he’d ever considered before; not for himself nor for Bond. He hadn’t ever thought he’d find someone who wanted to settle down with a skittish, absent minded, always busy, married-to-his-work chinchilla. But here they sat; a stubborn chinchilla and a seductive reptile.

Bond’s laughter drew Falk from his mental tirade. “What?” Falk again asked, this time softer.

“You. You have this awe-struck look on your face. I keep thinking that I must look shell-shocked for how amazed I am that you want me.”

Falk’s cheeks flushed harder. “What do you mean by that? Of course I want you! Hell, who wouldn’t?” His fur bristled at that. Bond was better than just about anyone in MI6 and if anyone wanted to deny it he’d gladly call their bluff. Sure Bond was good at almost getting himself killed, and killing people, and blowing things up — causing millions in damage usually — but that didn’t mean he was any less gifted as a mate, if the last few days were any indication. At that thought Falk’s ears flopped forward to cover his eyes. Bond was _definitely_ gifted in the uh, _mate_ department.

“Anyone who’s met me, for starters.” The self-depricating grin made Falk hiss but Bond shushed him. “It’s more that I find you amazing, Q — Falk.” He stumbled a bit, used to calling Falk by his classification rather than his name. “Intelligent, feisty, independent, gorgeous,” Falk hunched down further with each compliment, embarrassed and thrilled at once. “I know what I am, _who_ I am. But you’re, how do I put this…” Bond stared at his hands only to sign and look back up at Falk. “You’re _better_ than I am. And I doubted I’d ever be as lucky as I am right now.”

He stood and came around the desk to stand between Falk’s legs, the chin staring up at him with wide, watery green eyes. Falk sniffed and Bond cupped his jaw. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted and I’m sorry it took me so long to work up the nerve to say so.” He grinned sheepishly before dipping down to kiss Falk sweetly.

“And as you know,” he murmured against Falk’s lips, “I have to go meet with M. I’ll be back later and we can have lunch. Sound good?” Falk nodded against Bond’s mouth, drawing the bigger man back for another kiss before he released the reptile, pinching his bum for good measure as Bond moved away.

The blond looked over his shoulder as he link, winking lecherously.

Falk shook his head and went back to the pile of paperwork hiding his tabletop. Time to get productive.

—————————————————————————————

Falk managed a few hours before someone dared visit him. Eight came striding through his door as if he owned the place, damn cat. The feline wore a wide, feral grin and a well pressed suit with shiny shoes. He flopped down in the seat across from Falk and crossed his legs, lacing his fingers across the knee of the top leg and grinning.

“Well now! I’m back! What did you have in mind for tonight? Italian? French? I haven’t spread this around but I can cook a mean pepper steak.” His too-white teeth glinted in the fleurescent light and Falk shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m busy.”

Eight paused, face momentarily stiffening in surprise before it melted back into a grin. “Aw, don’t be like that, you promised after all!”

“That was then, this is now. I’m not interested, Agent. Now deposit any and all returned equipment to R and be sure to file your after action report. Dismissed.” Falk looked back down at his paperwork, worry stiffening his spin and tightening the grip he had on his pen. The feeling of being stared at only increased though, rather than faded.

The chair across from him shifted, scuffing against the floor. Falk focused pointedly on filling out the form in front of him, even as a shadow eclipsed his light and made him frown. Hot breath on his neck though was the last straw and Falk drew back, frowning, ears flat. “What is it? I’ve dismissed you, you have work to complete, do you not?”

Eight was well within Falk’s personal space. His pupils were blown wide and the fur of his ears was bristled. Claws poked out from his fingertips resting atop the desk. Lovely, Eight was in a tizzy.

“You agreed,” the feline hissed. “Before I shipped out your promised me a date.”

Falk raised a brow with more bravado than he felt. “I did no such thing.”

“You did!” Eight snarled.

“Actually,” Falk corrected, “All I did was nod. And in case you’d forgotten I only did so after you invaded my personal space and all but forced yourself upon me. So no, agent, I owe you nothing. But,” and here he paused to tilt his head back, mouth pursed, “If you insist I can certainly have you indited for indecent workplace etiquette and harrassment. Against a superior no less.” The chin’s voice was low, soft. He would do this quietly, the way he wanted it to be. “So your choices are to back off and subsequently keep your paws to yourself from here on out, or find yourself posted in Antarctica. The choice is yours.”

Eight bristled further and stood back, wide eyes pinned on Falk. He inhaled, paused, then inhaled again. “Hah,” he chuckled. “So that’s it; gave yourself up to Bond for protection, huh? Too weak to tell me off without him backing you up?” He sneered at Falk, insult making his fingers shift back and forth between forms.

Falk stood, insulted. He stepped into Eight’s personal space and prodded the agent in the chest. “How _dare_ you! You have no right to make such accusations! Yes, I took Bond as my mate. But that has absolutely _nothing_ to do with you! If you wish to insist on inserting yourself into my love life though, fine; consider yourself to be an unwelcome suitor. I found my mate and I _chose_ him because that’s what I want, _who_ I want.” Falk and Eight were nearly of a height and Falk leant into the cat’s face so their noses nearly touched. “I don’t need someone else to fight my battles for me, agent, don’t ever think I won’t end you myself.”

The cat wasn’t fighting anymore, not like he had been ready to pounce on Falk second earlier. His ears were flat, drooping slightly, and his mouth was pursed. He looked away from Falk and down at the floor. Eight stepped back and nodded, biting his lip for a second before he spoke. “I...I’m sorry, Q.”

The apology caught Falk so unawares he jumped, startled.

Eight continued as though he hadn’t noticed. “I just...I’m not used to being turned down. And you? You were a fabulous chase, always right out of my claws, teasing me. I don’t like losing...but…” he looked back up at Falk and smiled faintly, sheepishly. “I’m sorry I let my temper get the best of me. And uh, I didn’t — I don’t mean any of what I said.” He rubbed the back of his head, so out of character from the cocky, seductive agent Falk had grown to grudgingly work with. “But uh, I do have a question for you.”

Spine straight Falk nodded, “What is it?”

Eight shrugged, looking again sure of himself. “Bond...does he...does he treat you well? Does he respect you, treasure you?”

Falk barely had to think, almost responding on instinct before he stopped himself and licked his lips. “Yes,” he answered, “But he also pushes me, tests me, makes me work and think. It isn’t a relationship where I rely on him for everything and he makes sure I’m still curious, still intrigued; eggs me on and picks fights just because he can.” The chin stopped as a smile blossomed across Eight’s face. “That’s what you want, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Eight nodded anyway and Falk bit his lip. “I’m not sorry I chose Bond.”

“And neither am I.”

“But...I do have a suggestion.” Eight cocked his head, ears perked. “Have you ever considered Nine? He already knows how to keep you in line. And you work well together. Likely you’d do even better if you’d stop fighting him on absolutely everything.”

Understanding crossed Eight’s face and he turned, spinning on one foot and made for the door. He paused there to turn back, striding up to Falk and  — before the chin could do anything — pressed a loud, smacking kiss to Falk’s mouth. Then the cat grinned, gave a salute, and flounced out of the room with a hurried, “Thank you!”

Between wiping his mouth and texting Bond, Falk grinned.

 ------

Fin

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book Cover: Soft Belly - Sharp Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/works/922850) by [ShadyQuiet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadyQuiet/pseuds/ShadyQuiet)
  * [Chinchilla Q](https://archiveofourown.org/works/929249) by [hildy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hildy/pseuds/hildy)
  * [Lynx 008](https://archiveofourown.org/works/929266) by [hildy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hildy/pseuds/hildy)




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